


What Will Be

by Kantrips



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair and Amell have not met...yet, Alistair is sad but hopefully not for much longer, Alternate Universe, F/M, Post-Blight, alcohol cw, implied abuse cw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-11-28 23:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11428722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantrips/pseuds/Kantrips
Summary: Duncan never visited the Circle Tower and apostate Celia Amell spent the entire Blight trying desperately to stay one step ahead of the Templars.Loghain’s sacrifice and the triumph of the Hero of Fereldan feel a distant, bitter victory for an estranged Alistair, who is on the precipice of a downward spiral into purposelessness and drink. When he is given a chance to earn some much-needed coin, the ex-templar sets out in pursuit of an apostate who has an unusually large price on her head.Despite all of his training however, Alistair is wholly unprepared for this particular challenge: an apostate who he cannot seem to help but like.





	1. Overdue

The runic worry token turned in endless circles around his index finger, spun by an agitated thumb. Sat with his back hunched, elbows resting on knees splayed comfortably apart, Alistair chanced the occasional glance around the crowded square before returning his gaze to the pavement between his feet. He sat on the edge of an ornate fountain, the tinkling water of which he had earlier found soothing but having waited so long, had evolved into a grating reminder of the slow passage of time.

Despite his furtive surveillance of the many people milling through the market stalls, Alistair was still caught by surprise when a cloaked and hooded figure sat suddenly beside him.

“Good morn- excuse me _afternoon_ Edleth,” Alistair drawled, hoping he sounded as unimpressed as he felt for being made to wait. He knew the sour-faced man well as he acted as errand boy to one of Alistair’s regular employers.

Edleth him gave him a sharp look. “I would thank you not to yell my name for all to hear.”

“A little warm for a cloak is it not, on a lovely day like this? If you are trying to blend in it might serve you well to try and look just a smidgen less shifty,” Alistair said, demonstrating a small space with his finger and thumb. Edleth removed his hood with a jerk and Alistair’s spirits lifted to see the man’s jaw muscle clenching and unclenching. “Always so nice to catch up, we should do this more often.”

“This is not a social call,” Edleth snapped. Alistair feigned wide-eyed shock, a hand over his heart as Edleth gave their surroundings a careful evaluation, including looking over his shoulder as if he expected a spy to be half-submerged in the fountain before speaking again. “My Master has further work for you.”

Alistair clapped his hands excitedly making Edleth flinch. “What kind of work? Woodchopping? Crop harvesting? Brick laying? Oh! Head of the Chantry Choir? Pastry chef? Now I know I may not look it but I am a dab hand with spun sugar.”

“People do not enjoy you ‘humour’ nearly as much as you might flatter yourself. My Master merely tolerates it.”

“‘People’? People sound charming. Charming like a boot to the head.”

“There is a job: take it or do not. Another will if you refuse.”

“Yet here you are asking me. And first I assume, despite your Master barely tolerating me and my sparkling wit.”

“As a templar, you have a unique –”

“I am not a templar,” Alistair interrupted. “So, it is an apostate that needs wrangling then?” Edleth shot him another pursed-lip look that clearly indicated he should keep his voice down.

“You have your methods: call them what you will. They are useful which is all that concerns my Master.”

“Do you have any, even the slightest, teensiest idea of just how ridiculous you sound every time you say ‘my Master’?”

Edleth let out a long breath through his nostrils and swallowed before speaking. “The target my Mast–” He caught himself too late and Alistair let out a bark of laughter. Edleth grimaced and continued, speaking rapidly now, evidently wanting the conversation finished quickly. “They are residing in a small village. We have been tracking them for some time but our previous leads have all expired. She has proved elusive till now, she keeps on the move. This is our opportunity, before she goes to ground again.”

“Has she twigged her movements are being tracked? Or is she just at normal levels of paranoid, apostate-y nerves?”

“Impossible to say.”

“She...” Alistair rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What is her crime?”

“Crime? She is an apostate: a mage with no collar and no conscience.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Alistair waved his hands defensively. “Usually when you give me a job the party involved is summoning demons and stealing children or at least murdering small, fluffy animals. You know, nasty stuff.”

“Where there is an apostate there is trouble; you should have learned that by now.” Edleth drew a folded piece of parchment from inside his cloak and handed it to Alistair. “A map,” he explained.

“What? Just handing it to me?” Alistair asked. “You aren’t going to slide it along the seat underneath a decoy? You’re losing your touch,” Alistair tutted.

With a final hiss of irritation, Edleth rose, drawing his hood about his face once more. “Take the job Alistair. I know you need the coin. Everyone does,” He said, drawing out the last two words with clear antipathy.

“Hold on. I am not exactly drowning in information here, it feels like a few details have been neglected.”

“The map is all you need. It has a description of the individual too. If further information is required, it will be supplied to you.”

“How will you know where to reach me?”

“A village like where you are going? There is only one place to stay. The apostate will be there too. Oh, and one final thing.”

“‘Thing’? Catch you mean.”

“Generally, this work comes with an understanding that you will catch or...subdue as the situation dictates. Capture only, in this instance. It is not an open bounty, as you are being trusted to handle the situation deftly,”

Alistair nodded, in understanding and agreement, tucking the map into the breast of his leather jerkin. As Edleth turned to leave looking satisfied Alistair half spoke, half coughed the word: “Payment.”

“Ah, I nearly forgot,” Edelth sighed prompting Alistair to roll his eyes. “You can do the maths. Half now, half when the task is completed.” A coin purse was tossed carelessly in his direction and Alistair caught it in one hand before it was lost to the waters of the fountain. “Which, might I add, shows a generous amount of faith in you. Do not give us cause for disappointment.” Alistair responded with an embellished salute.

“Bye Edleth!” Alistair yelled as the other man walked away. He saw his back tense before Edleth disappeared into the swirling crowd.

Satisfied he had galled the man sufficiently during the short encounter, Alistair tested the weight of the purse in his palm. Generous amounts of faith and a more than generous amount of coin to match. Quashing a flicker of suspicion that raced across his mind, Alistair stood and pocketed the purse. He had debts to pay, and while it was never a sound strategy to spend a commission before it was fully earned, he had left himself little choice.

He hated apostate hunting and bounty work, but it was the only decent wage he could earn himself in a pinch. And right at that moment, he found himself well and truly pinched.

* * *

 

Alistair dodged the first punch aimed at his face but copped the second in his abdomen. Pain ricocheted through the lower part of his ribcage. “Let me speak!” he wheezed.

“I don’t like it when you speak and you speak altogether far too much.”

“Right, right. I’m a pest, I’m a nuisance and you despise me: I get it! Can we just talk? Come on Bunting, just for a sec-”

Another fist flying in his direction answered the question and stumbling backwards, Alistair quickly withdrew the purse Edleth had given him earlier, sans a few coins he had pocketed. Money at least might talk where he could not.

Half geared for another swing at Alistair’s nose Bunting froze, staring at the coin purse wide-eyed and curious like a baby distracted by a rattle.

Alistair held it out in front of his face, part as a gesture of peace, partly to try and protect himself. Bunting hesitated, massive gut heaving up and down from the exertion of attempting to pummel Alistair into pulp. Alistair jiggled the purse so that the contents made an enticing clinking sound and Bunting finally made a snatch at it, as if afraid it might disappear.

Prizing open the neck of the bag with swollen fingers Bunting gave the contents a cursory glance and made a disgusted noise at the back of his throat. “It’s a start.”

“A start!? Three quarters at least!”

“Half.”

“Riiight,” Alistair sighed. He was not a position to argue about how much of this man’s stock he had consumed when he was getting black out drunk while doing so. “Well, Bunting, I thought this would put a smile on your face and I just wanted to pop in and let you know that the rest is coming. Soon.”

“You think I’m going to let you walk out that door without the full amount you owe me? And what you owe my boys? You think I’m an idiot?”

“Don’t answer, don’t answer, don’t answer,” Alistair muttered under his breath.

“What?”

Alistair took a breath and tried to put on his best, most reasonable voice. “I promise you I will be back with the rest. I have a job to work and surely it doesn’t benefit you to keep me here where I can’t earn? I have nothing else on me.”

“You and your hollow promises. You could earn coin here. As a spectacle for customers: first whole man pickled in cider and displayed in a jar.”

“But then you would have to see my face every single day and wouldn’t that just infuriate you?” Alistair beamed at him, then shook his head, his expression turning serious. “Please, trust me. There is more coin coming.”

“Trust you?” Bunting scoffed.

“I am a changed man and I intend to set this right. All of it. And a little for the inconvenience.”

Bunting gave him a long look, but must have detected something of the earnestness that Alistair felt. “Come back with the coin, or not at all. If you step back within spitting distance of the city walls with anything but the express purpose of paying me my due, you won’t live to run whatever little errand you hope to. My sons will be keeping an eye out for you. Maker knows you couldn’t keep your voice down long enough to blend in if your life depended on it. Which it will.”

Alistair dipped his head with genuine gratitude and relief. Of all the taverns in this place to build an enormous tab up at, he had to pick the one whose owner had a litter of terrifyingly large sons with links in the lyrium smuggling trade and nasty reputations.

He half backed out of the room, watching with reluctance as the coin purse disappeared into Bunting’s pocket. The night had just begun and he yet had a long way to travel – there was no point in delaying. Striding back down the alleyway, seeking a main road out of town, he slung his small bag of possessions more securely across his body, stomach churning slightly.

“A changed man?” he wondered to himself. He could only hope that this time it stuck.

* * *

 

Wiping a counter – was there anything more conspicuously obvious as busywork? Celia pondered this she lurked behind the bar, polishing determinedly, chewing her bottom lip as the argument grew in intensity before her.

Doctor Millen was bearing down on a seated Custer, gesturing furiously at him with a single, shaking finger.

“You should know better!”

“Better? Better than who? Better than what?” Custer was baiting him now and while Celia was no fan of the ‘good’ Doctor, she wished he would not antagonize him.

“Better than patronising a place like this!” Millen made another wild gesture, sweeping his arm to indicate their surroundings. Still wiping, Celia’s watchful eyes flicked to the door as a man entered. A stranger, tall and fair haired. Not much luggage. Sword at his belt. Travel worn and weary looking. From the enquiring looking on his face and the concerned furrow of his brow, she guessed the sound of the argument had carried through the thick oak door long before the stranger had gotten close enough to lay a hand on it.

From childhood, Celia had gotten feelings about people, strong first impressions from a single glance that generally turned out to be accurate. Troublingly, the stranger immediately smacked of a thoroughly good sort, the kind to intervene and try to help. Her stomach sank as she eyed his sword again. “Please for the love of the Maker stay out of it!” she muttered to herself. The last thing she needed was blows traded, especially now a weapon was on hand.

The stranger closed the door quietly behind him. The two men arguing in the middle of the room had not noticed his careful entrance.

“I will patron wherever I please. I like this place,” Custer replied, flecks of spittle flying.

Millen banged a fist on the table in front of him. “You know what kind of people it attracts. _Shelters_.” Millen hissed the final word and Celia felt a shiver run down her spine.

The stranger had stepped towards the pair, now clearly considering intervening but yet remaining quiet. Celia tried to catch his eye to shake her head at him but he did not look in her direction.

“I happen to like all the people in this place. With one exception.” Custer stared pointedly at Millen.

Millen’s upper lip curled above his teeth: “You are a fool. You all are.” He spared Celia a disdainful glance, still sneering, and gave the newcomer one too for good measure. The stranger stepped aside to give him space to leave, his face now slightly...bemused? Celia wondered if he found the scene funny.

The door slammed and the counter was sparkling. Celia discarded her rag and quickly filled a cup to replace the one that Custer had just drained. She bustled off again and returned with two steaming wooden bowls, full of stew. She placed one beside Custer, producing a hunk of bread and a spoon from her apron. He took her hand in his and gave it a reassuring pat and she smiled affectionately at the old man before he released her. Bending carefully, one bowl still balanced in her hand, she reached down to prop up his crutches which had been knocked down in the argument.

“Thank you dear,” he told her.

She responded by swiftly kissing him on the cheek. “Thank you for standing up for me.”

Turning and surveying the room, it was not difficult to spot its only other occupant. The stranger was seated several tables away and had carefully been watching the interchange between Celia and Custer. As carefully as he had watched the earlier argument, with focus that almost indicated he was seeking something. She swept over to him, long skirts rustling busily and plonked the stew down on the table before him, retrieving another spoon and hunk of bread. His brow furrowed once more.

“I did not order –”

“I know,” her voice was quiet. “I saw you were prepared to intervene. Thank you.” She smiled.

“It may have escaped your notice but I didn’t actually _do_ anything.”

It was hard to explain that truth be told she was more grateful that he had indeed, read the situation clearly enough to know not to get involved so she did not attempt to. “I appreciate it nonetheless. Eat, please. You look like you have travelled a long way since you last saw a hot meal.” She nudged the spoon a little closer to him and smiled again. He continued to look slightly baffled, first at her, then at the stew. Then, bafflement shifted to scepticism. Celia frowned and wondered what kindness had been so absent in his life to make him so distrustful of such a small gesture. “A drink?” she asked.

He quickly shook his head.

The sound of something recently shot and constrained in a sack for the next pot of stew thumping on the counter indicated her employer had returned.

“Ah Red, back just as all the action dies down as usual!” Custer yelled in merry greeting.

“What happened this time? You making havoc again Custer?”

Celia rushed over to Red, helping him to unpack his bag. “I’m sorry Red. The Doctor was here evangelizing again. It does not bear repeating.”

“Are you alright?”

“I had Custer to protect me.” Custer laughed in the background. Celia smiled at the man and Red nodded at him, pouring him another drink. “You deserve better than this Red. This is your livelihood.”

“Do not be so foolish as to take it upon yourself to feel responsible. That man was born looking for arguments to get into. He is threatened by you is all.”

From the corner of her eye, Celia saw the face of the stranger flick towards her. She moved so she had her back to him and lowered her voice.

“I cannot help but think that this is another signal that I should move on, though I would hate to leave you short staffed.” More customers were arriving, Celia could hear to door squeaking back and forth and the rumble of cheerful, end-of-the-day chatter.

“Please Celia,” Red’s eyes were imploring. “Wait until Winny has the baby. You know she is frightening herself to sickness after what happened last time with Millen. But she trusts you. We both do. It would mean the world to us.”

“Of course Red, after all you have done for me.” The pair shared a quick smile. Red was right, Celia should not even begin to consider abandoning his wife and her friend when she was so close to labour and so desperately worried. Winny had already lost a child once and Celia hated the thought that her departure might add to the woman’s stress. It was risky, but surely, she would be safe in this place for a few more days, weeks if necessary. There had not been a hint of pursuit for months now: the trail must finally have gone cold.

Since her escape from the Circle, she had never stayed in one place so long and now, this tiny village was beginning to feel frighteningly like home.

As she turned to get back to work her eyes locked with the gaze of the stranger. A coldness clenched around her heart. He had been listening. Had he? He glanced down at his bowl, which she suddenly realized was scraped clean, not a crumb of bread left in sight. He looked up at her again with a sheepish grin and feeling reassured, she moved towards him, composed again, intending to refill it.

Celia decided that her first impression had been correct. The man was a mystery, but no threat.

* * *

 

Alistair felt struck. She – the apostate - had just bustled away with his bowl again, beaming with pleasure, apparently brought great joy by the simple fact that he had eaten the food. Not for the first time it crossed his mind that it might have been poisoned. But he had eaten it nonetheless. Half-starved and still freezing from the long walk in punishing icy winds, the smell of the hot food had been too great of a temptation to resist.

She was back with another brimming bowlful, weaving through the now crowded room towards him. Her face was glowing and her cheeks were a dusky pink from the heat of the kitchen and whatever she had tended to in there during her absence. “A cauldron?” he speculated silently and without enthusiasm or conviction.

She smiled openly at him and he took in bright eyes and strands of curling hair stuck damply to her forehead and temples. The bowl was deposited once again on the table and as if sensing his scrutiny, she brushed hair back from her face self-consciously. 

Her hands, he had observed, looked calloused, her forearms strong and able. What kind of apostate took on physical labour and waitressing work to make a living? Not one up to no-good. Not one who seemed so painfully normal. Not one like her surely. 

He thanked her.

“Celia. I suppose you should know that if you are planning on staying in the village for any amount of time.” She used her chin to gesture at his bag.

“Alistair,” he said without thinking. He hadn’t planned to use his real name but there it was. “I might be staying, if there is a bed.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

“There is, you will need to talk to Red. He is the...red-haired one over there.”

“I might have guessed,” Alistair chuckled. “Is there always dinner and a show at this place?” When she looked confused he pointed towards where Custer was sitting.

“Ah, not ideally no. Though these men will get up to mischief, given the opportunity. With the Blight over they have no Darkspawn to argue with and turn on each other for sport.”

“That is one good thing about a Blight,” Alistair mused, “It really brings people together.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” she answered with a wry smile. “Thank you again, for being ready to step in, and for holding back. We have enough drama around here.”

“Drama? In a sleepy little town like this!?”

She let out a little snort. “Either you have never lived in a small town before or you are being sarcastic.”

“With me it is always safe to assume the latter,” he assured her.

“Are you planning on staying long?”

I might stick around, I might not.” When she looked confused he clarified: “I could use a rest. A break from the road.”

“That I can understand,” she replied with a faint, knowing smile.


	2. Hesitate

The night wore on and Alistair sat and waited, watching Celia out the corner of his eye.

Surrounding him was a growing rowdiness. It was the kind of rowdiness Alistair recognised with some humility that up until recently he would have been in the thick of. The second bowl of rich, herb and vegetable laden stew sadly long since eaten, he had risked ordering a weak ale. It was strategy, not the beginning of backslide he had assured himself, and he sat nursing it as he observed Celia at work: fetching, carrying, occasionally encouraging some of the rowdiness with a mischievous laugh and more often wading in to settle things down. Given he wasn’t ordering anything she largely ignored him.

There was nothing to indicate anything suspicious about her behaviour but then again, what had he expected? Black robes, blood splatters and a necklace made of skulls? The closest thing to anything worth noting was when a man presumed to make a grab at Celia, pulling her by the waist to try and land her in his lap. He underestimated her strength and overestimated his own soberness. She pulled away, responding to him with a firm smack across his hand. Alistair lowered himself back into a seat he hadn’t realised he had risen out of.

Only a few seconds later as Celia walked away, the lecher’s tankard somehow spilled from the table into his lap, though Alistair could have sworn no hand was near it, and the table had not been jostled.

Other than that particular moment (which was far from conclusive), he was beginning to wonder if he had somehow ended up in entirely the wrong town, the wrong inn and was now creepily spying on the wrong woman as a result.

Eventually, his travel exhaustion forced him to seek out Red and a room for the night. The namesake red hair and beard made him easy enough to spot even amongst the milling, boisterous groups of patrons.

Red - who had his hands full filling tankards for a group that Alistair had already established were composed of an already sloppy groom-to-be and a posse of raucous friends who had an impressive lack of fear of the bride – whistled to attract Celia’s attention. Across the room, Celia shrugged with an arm full of logs and used them to gesture towards the waning fire.

“In a moment!” she yelled and Red nodded, returning his attention to the drinks. Alistair deposited his empty tankard in an out of the way spot and Red muttered his thanks.

“Off!” he bellowed suddenly, making Alistair jump a little. The groom-intended had mounted a table and was swaying precariously. At Red’s order he skittered backwards and fell to the great amusement of his companions who roared with laughter but helped him up all the same.

“At least he didn’t land on his face,” Alistair couldn’t help but chuckle a little himself, the contagious merriment of the group flooding the room.

Red shook his head. “Ah with that lad falling on his face might have been a blessing!” Alistair laughed again and Red gave him a sideways look. He had been civil, but was altogether less open than Celia had been. “I assume you know my name by now.”

“Yes, and I am Alistair.”

“I would shake your hand but…” Red trailed off and they both surveyed the mess. “You’re as new here as a spring daffodil. You planning on staying long?”

“Just in town, looking for work for a spell.” Alistair had to bite down a grin at his own unintentional pun. He was already off kilter and acting like a complete amateur. Maybe the woman had put something in his stew. He resisted the urge to check his own temperature.

“No work to be found in these parts. Little enough to go around this season for the residents. You got a family to provide for?”

“No. Just some debts that need attending too,” Alistair answered honestly.

“If you stay on a while some of the outlying farms might need an able body; a lot of the young hands were lost to the Darkspawn.” Alistair lowered his head respectfully. Red delivered a tray of drinks and returned asking: “You see any of the action, any of those creatures?”

“Some. More than I would have liked.”

“Where were you based?”

Alistair stopped himself from saying ‘Ostagar’. “Lothering. Then...” he hesitated, thinking of Redliffe, of the carnage and the walking dead. The home of his childhood defiled by filth, demons and corpses. Connor, face down on the cold flagstones, a creeping puddle of oozing blood, body still warm. The Warden, dismissive and patronising in the face of his anger and grief. Alistair cleared his throat. “Then I went to help where I could: farms, isolated homesteads, small towns in the path of the Darkspawn surge.”

Distress must have been painted on his face as clear as rouge and lipstick. Alistair felt it swirling in his gut, the darkness at the edge of his vision. He braced himself against the bar and hoped Red wouldn’t notice.

“It was brave of you to help people that others would have overlooked. They were the most vulnerable.”

Alistair gripped the bar more tightly. “I made next to no difference.”

“There was little enough difference to be made for the most part. It was a carnage. Praise the Maker for the Wardens.”

Alistair flinched. Loghain: gifted a chance of redemption. A hero now, and for all eternity; every sin wiped clean. And where was Alistair when the Grey Wardens were needed most? Roaming around uselessly. “Quite,” Alistair responded coldly.

What little facade he had maintained to this point was slipping. He needed to rest. Red was giving him a concerned look and Alistair felt a sudden surge of hatred towards him: towards his misplaced sympathy and his lack of understanding. He wanted a drink. Surely he needed one now. That thrumming in his ears had started again. His mouth was dry.

“Alistair?” It was Celia. “Let me show you your room.” Alistair wondered if some communication had passed between Red and Celia that he had not observed because after a moment she was taking his arm and while he put no weight on her, he felt supported and they seemed to glide through the room, the crowd parting without acknowledging them. He wondered if she thought he was drunk. Unlikely, given she had served him his lone drink. “You must be exhausted,” was all she said in a consoling tone as they began to ascend a quiet, dimly lit staircase. Now she was reading his mind?

The stair and upper corridor were noticeably chillier than the main bar and the drop in both temperature and volume was like a splash of cold water to the face. Alistair began to feel himself again and Celia released his arm. She paused at a side table and lit a candle when a door opened spilling warm light into the corridor. A dwarven woman poked her head out of the door frame.

“I thought I heard you Cel- Oh, I did not realise we had a guest!”

“Winifred, this is Alistair. He will be staying for...for a time. Alistair this is your hostess.”

“Please, I prefer Winny.” Heavily pregnant, she wobbled out and looked him unabashedly up and down, hands on hips.

“Winny, perhaps you should sit down,” Celia suggested.

“Sit down? I have been sitting down all night given no one will let me do _anything_. Socks,” She finished abruptly and Alistair blinked in confusion. “Alistair, do you need any socks? I am on an absolute knitting spree: it is the only useful thing I can do at the moment. Well, when my fingers aren’t swollen up like every other ruddy part of me. Yellow?”

“Um,” Alistair began.

“Blue?” Celia offered.

“Blue would suit you,” Winny finished.

“It is easier not to argue. Just let her do it. Maker knows the rest of us are running out of sock storage space; you would be doing us a favour really,” Celia told him behind her hand.

“You’ll all be grateful when the real cold sets in. A jumper too.” She stared intently at Alistair’s chest, then appraised his arms. “Broad, very muscular,” Winny mused as Alistair squirmed self-consciously.

“Do you mind if I show Alistair to his room? He has had a long day,” Celia said, sensing his discomfort.

“Of course. Make sure he has extra blankets.” Addressing Alistair, Winny continued: “Breakfast will be available in the morning with the room fare, if you don’t mind porridge. And there is hot water on request. Don’t overdo it though, I am useless and you don’t want to make poor Celia cart too many jugs up the stairs. You are welcome to any other meals but they are extra. The meat is fresh and Celia knows salt from sugar but that is all we promise.”

“Thank you I -”

“Gloves, everything blue,” Winny finished before returning to the room she had emerged from.

Celia moved further up the corridor towards a door at the far end and he followed, slightly bewildered. “This will be your room,” she informed him, using a key before handing it to him. It should be quiet, once downstairs dies down. We don’t have a lot of guests coming through to stay. No one much fancies travelling this close to the Blight stricken areas.”

The room was comfortable and clean, if sparse and a little worn. The floor was slate, with a roughly woven rug beside the bed to protect emerging feet from the worst of the chill. The walls were whitewashed and punctuated by a single window opposite the door, and the rafters in the ceiling exposed but looked free of cobwebs. A washstand with a bowl, jug and neatly folded towel was tucked in one corner and a small table with two simple, straight-backed wooden chairs were arranged by the window. Most welcome in Alistair’s eyes, was a fireplace opposite the bed which the damp chill of the air suggested guests in this place would be readily in need of.

 Celia moved to light the candles on the various surfaces and Alistair put his bag down on a chair. He watched her back as she hovered over the fire place that was stocked with kindling but unlit. It suddenly struck him that this was a perfect opportunity to subdue the woman, bundle her up and get away unnoticed. True he couldn’t exactly put her in a sack and stroll through the crowded bar whistling, nor did he wish to hurl her out the window and jump out in pursuit, but he before entering the inn he had scanned the exterior and noticed a side door, possibly leading from the kitchen, that could make for a sneaky exit, even with a captive.  

He could be gone before anyone noticed. And even if the only other person in earshot did notice, what fight was a pregnant woman going to put up? Stab him with a knitting needle? Actually, on second thought...A glow from the fireplace and a comforting smoky smell indicated Celia had managed to light the kindling. He heard her blowing on it furiously to keep the flame alive and felt bad for not offering to help. Then again, she could always use magic if she was struggling, he reminded himself.

Alistair was wracked with indecision and one internal struggle away from actually wringing his hands. This was all so out of the ordinary and she was so vulnerable, crouched before the fire with her back to him. Conveniently vulnerable. Why was he so conflicted?

Perhaps the Maker was finally serving him an opportunity to right his debts up on a platter and here he was, hesitating to take it…

She pulled herself up by gripping the mantelpiece and turned to him. “There, that is going well. I will bring up some wood -” Upon seeing his face, she hesitated and Alistair quickly attempted to arrange his expression into something less predatory. “I will ask Red to bring some wood up shortly, the room won’t take long to warm. Those blankets too.” A waiver in her voice indicated that the damage had already been done. “Is there anything else?” she asked, eyes wary.

“No,” he answered quickly. “It is everything I could hope for,” he stuttered out.

“Unusually high praise! Usually I am satisfied by a grunt of acknowledgment from guests,” she laughed, still sounding nervous.

“Bed. Roof. Fire,” Alistair responded, pointing accordingly around the room. “I suppose I am easily pleased.”

“Well, you truly must have been away from home for a very, very long time.”

“Long enough that the poetic romance of sleeping in a tree hollow has well and truly worn off.”

“I can sympathise!”

“You travel a lot?” Alistair asked quickly.

Celia baulked a little, eyes widening. “I should leave you in peace. I am certain you wished to escape the inane conversations in the bar, not have them follow you up. Good night,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried out.

“Night,” he called after her.

Alistair felt surprisingly sad at the apprehension he had prompted in her. Maker what now – he wanted her to _like_ him?

Mage Hunter Rule 1) Don’t make friends with your target.

* * *

 

Had he noticed her scurrying from the room? Celia felt a little ridiculous. Why was she finding it so difficult to get a read on this man? Generally, the people she met were like an open book though she had never been certain as to how that particular magical intuition functioned. Perhaps if she had stayed at the Circle longer she may have found out, and even had the opportunity to hone the ability. Ruefully, she bit her lip. Staying simply had not been an option.

She popped her head in to see Winny, who already had several different shades of blue wool scattered about her lap. One ball slipped from her grasp and Celia rushed to pick it up and return it to her, kneeling at Winny’s feet.

“There you are, always fussing over me,” Winny smiled as she accepted the rogue wool. “What do you think of the colour?” she asked.

Celia considered the options. “Perhaps that one. It reminds me of something...”

“That would suit him well. Though most things would. Very handsome man, did you notice?”

“I am not blind Winny,” Celia snapped and when the other woman laughed she realised too late the she had fallen into a trap of some kind. “Don’t plan him a whole woollen suit: I would not be surprised if he does not stay long.”

“You read that off him, did you?”

“I haven’t read much off him actually. It is almost as if he doesn’t know what his intentions are…a bit lost perhaps…” Celia shook her head as if to clear it. “Seems a decent sort but a mystery for now.”

“Ooh, tall, handsome _and_ mysterious?” Winny looked gleeful.

Celia rolled her eyes and changed the subject. “I have read a few things off you though. How are you doing? Really?”

Winny sighed. “No point in saying I am not anxious.”

“Don’t be. I will be with you, every step of the way.”

“You’ve decided to stay on then, a little longer at least?” Winny was delighted, wool scattering to the floor as she leaned forward to hug Celia. “I would be so grateful to have you, and a few of your tricks on hand.”

“I was persuaded; your husband frets over you.”

“Don’t need to tell me that,” Winny smiled, but it quickly slipped from her face. “You’re not putting yourself at risk are you, staying longer?”

“No, at least I have no reason to think so. Besides, that is for me to worry about, not you.”

“I am your friend; I am going to worry about it whether you like it or not.”

Celia squeezed her hand as Red appeared in the doorframe. “Is everything alright?”

“Of course,” Winny replied.

“Sorry, I have been a while.” Celia walked to join him.

“No matter, everything is under control. Those lads have staggered out at last.”

“Let us hope he has the strength to stagger up the aisle tomorrow!” Celia huffed.

“If he was as bad as that you might expect an early call from them, Celia, for a little bit off a perking up before the ceremony,” Winny observed.

“Would serve him right if I refused. Red, the guest needs some firewood for the night and blankets.”

“Not like you to delegate Celia,” Red teased. Celia gave him a stern look. “I am happy to do it!” he added quickly.

“Handsome Alistair is making poor Celia nervous I think.” Celia spun to fix her stern look on Winny instead.

“Handsome, is he?” Red asked drily.

“Not as handsome as you dear.” Red responded with a satisfied hum and went to kiss his wife.

“He seems to have a lot on his mind. Something troubles him,” said Celia, even as she smiled at the fondness between the pair before her.

“The Blight left very few of us unburdened by troubles. Though I agree, that was a bit of a turn downstairs,” Red replied.

“Speaking of which, I should get down there before they start serving themselves. Is Custer still in?” Celia asked. Red nodded without looking at her, stroking his wife’s belly affectionately while Winny beamed up at him. “I might walk him home when it gets quiet enough. There is a terrible iciness on the paths and you know how he is with his crutches after a few drinks.”

“His problem is he keeps forgetting he is one leg down.”

Celia sighed. “I did my best.”

“That was not a criticism: we all know you did. He was nearly one life down, let alone a leg,” said Red.

Celia did not reply, and slipped out of the room and down the stairs, back to the cacophony of the bar hoping it would drown out her thoughts. Her ‘best’ was often not up to scratch it seemed. If only she had stayed in the Circle and learned more. It was a ridiculous thought she knew, as if she had done so, she never would have been able to leave it to help anyone, let alone Custer but it still didn’t quell the feelings of inadequacy that often plagued her.

* * *

 

There was no sign of Celia downstairs the following morning and as promised, Red had delivered the firewood for the night to Alistair’s room. Winny was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of porridge and informed him she had picked a shade of blue wool – or at least, apparently Celia had.

 Alistair was kicking himself internally. Opportunities to easily apprehend his target missed? One. What if she had fled already? Sensed troubled, packed her things and left in the dead of night while he snored on oblivious?

He sat at a table with Red as the both dove gratefully into a bowl of hot porridge, drizzled with honey and cooked with pear. Winny joined them shortly after.

“Celia not having breakfast?” Alistair asked.

Winny gave him an amused look. “Miss her already? Don’t worry we all do. Celia has a home elsewhere. She only stays here if it is too late a night, or if the weather sets in.”

“Oh,” Alistair answered lamely.

“So where are you from originally Alistair?” she asked, sparing him further embarrassment.

“Around. You know…” Vague. Too obviously vague.

“One of those huh? Forgive my wife’s curiosity, we do not get a lot of newcomers around here,” Red offered.

“You must have some newcomers. Celia has an accent,” said Alistair.

“Celia is one of us, well enough,” Red answered defensively. Alistair nodded and did not push the subject. Interesting. Red was protective. Protective enough that he must know the woman had a massive magical, apostate-y secret to hide. So, what had she done to gain such loyalty in the time she had been here, to gain such favour in a short space of time?

They were unlikely to be old friends – any apostate worth their salt knew to avoid old contacts and relatives lest the Templars come knocking on their door. How then?

Images of blood magic rituals, cursing the crops of enemies, suddenly deceased livestock and rivals contracting mysterious illness popped into his head. Red and Winny didn’t seem the type. Neither did Celia frankly.

He could imagine Edleth laughing at his naivety. But what did he have to work with if not his gut? They all seemed like decent people, apostates or not. If he could just catch Celia performing one teensy little demon summoning he could take her down in good conscience. Right now, it would be rather like taking down a particularly wide-eyed rabbit. Hardly a victory for the bards to recount.

Though, it did occur to Alistair that Celia must have a lot more fight in her than he was giving her credit for to have evaded to Templars this long.

“Your porridge is getting cold,” Winny told him and Alistair, jolted from his musings, picked up his spoon.


	3. Dither

After thanking his hosts for breakfast, and paying for both the previous night of board and the next with two of his precious coins, Alistair left to see the village under the guise of looking for work. He wondered if he might spot where Celia lived, though Winny’s comment seemed to indicate she may have a way to travel so it was likely further out. An isolated dwelling was not an unusual choice for an apostate. Alistair speculated it made it significantly easier to partake in mage-y activities without neighbour peering through the windows or tapping on the door looking for a cup of sugar.

A long walk and thorough exploration of the village quickly indicated that it was not remarkable in any way. Small thatched cottages with neat gardens, and slate-rooved stores with careful window displays and hand painted signs made up the centre of the town. A large oak marked the town square which was decorated with colourful ribbons as part of some recent, local tradition he expected. Nearby was a Doctor’s Office – Doctor Millen he presumed. And sure enough, here came the man himself. Had he been watching him out of his window?

“Good morning!” Millen called with friendly joviality that had been entirely absent the previous evening when Alistair had first encountered the man.

“Good morning.”

“Please allow me to introduce myself and apologise for the rather, unsightly display of temper you witnessed yesterday.”

“Ah, so you did spot me somewhere between storming across the room and slamming the door?” Alistair asked wryly.

“Yes...quite,” Millen replied, clearly off-balance from the comment. “You must be new in town?”

“I must be: I keep hearing as much after all.”

“Well, I just wanted to let you know that I am here if you need me.”

“Need you?”

“I am the only doctor in town. Should you require my services. Hopefully not of course. But any time of the day or night. I reside above my office and if I am not in my assistant always knows where to find me. So, should you require it...You uh, you know where you can turn.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Alistair said noncommittally. Millen’s back stiffened suddenly as he spotted something over Alistair’s shoulder. Alistair turned to match his sightline and saw Celia, swaying awkwardly with two heavy baskets of vegetables and cloth-wrapped packages. Though yet quite a distance off, she had obviously spotted them.

“I assume she wants to speak to _you_.” Millen’s friendly countenance had slipped.

“Is there a problem?” Alistair asked, amused by the sudden change in attitude.

“Not at all,” the doctor replied brusquely before tipping his hat and striding back towards his office. Baffled from the whole exchange, Alistair turned to greet Celia.

“Is he filling you with unfavourable impressions of me?” Celia puffed. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion and her hair was piled high on top of her head exposing small, rounded, pink ears.

“He said nothing about you actually,” Alistair said, taking one of the baskets. Celia relinquished it gratefully, however refused when he reached for the second one.

“That makes a nice change,” she said curtly, using her newly liberated hand to loosen her scarf and fan herself.

“Not the best of friends then?”

“We don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on most matters, no.” They began to walk back towards the inn.

“He was just letting me know that he was available, should I have need of him.”

“Ha! Planning on getting ill are you?”

“I did think it a little odd that the man who is clearly the only doctor in town felt the need to assure me that he is indeed the only doctor in town.”

Celia cleared her throat. “I hope you like cabbage, they had a special.”

* * *

 

Gripping her basket with both hands, Celia and Alistair walked in a companionable silence which gave her time to think.

So that was Millen’s game: trying to poach clients before they even needed healing. Well, he was welcome to Alistair, should the man find himself with any ailments. The Doctor had always laboured under the misapprehension that she was doing it for the coin – his coin – like he was. After she had helped Custer and saved his life using magic, word got out. Naturally that had been the last thing she had intended, to announce her presence as an apostate, but things had snowballed, as they often do. Far be it form her to turn down those seeking her help, and her magical abilities gave her an appealing edge over Millen's traditional surgical methods. While she would try to refuse their grateful payments, every coin helped her plan her next move out of here.

Though more often than not payment was a bushel of new season apples, a fat chicken or an unattractive bonnet, she recognised the depth of their gratitude and attempted to accept it all with grace. So far no one had wanted to run her out of town, except for Millen who saw her has a business threat. The only thing stopping him from calling for the templars was the general affection of the rest of the townsfolk held for her and he feared their ire.

It was a shaky, tenuous kind of protection to be so dependent on the continued goodwill of the people around her and not something Celia was accustomed to.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Alistair glance across at her.

“So you are with us for another night then?” Celia asked, suddenly feeling the need to say something.

“Yes, still looking for work, though I hear it is thin on the ground.”

“Yes unfortunately...” Celia trailed off, but fortuitously, the stilted conversation was interrupted by a small flock of children stampeding towards them.

“Cece, cece! Can we see a trick?” one of the youngsters greeted her with a yell, rushing to hug her around the legs. She staggered slightly, and Alistair caught her basket before it fell from her hands and squashed the child below.

“No tricks today Pip,” Celia answered firmly. “But I do have...” She dug around in one of the baskets. “Boiled sweets!” She passed them around to the enthusiastic recipients.

“I can see how you win your allies,” said Alistair, relenting as Celia took her basket back.

“Quite.” With an impish smile she offered him the bag of sweets. He took one without much hesitation.

“I never said I wasn’t easily bought,” he shrugged and Celia laughed.

“Who is he?” another of the children asked, addressing Celia but staring at Alistair unabashedly.

“This is Alistair.”

“Hello,” Alistair added shyly as the small, beady and attentive eyes of the group set upon him with intense focus.

“Are you a soldier?” another child piped up, emboldened by her peers.

“I am – was a soldier. Of sorts.”

“Did you fight a Darkspawn?”

Alistair hesitated and Celia felt a nervous flutter in her chest. There was something more to this, she had seen it in his face at the bar last night and here it was again. Suddenly she was worried, to have him so put on the spot. “Some, yes,” Alistair finally replied.

“A Darkspawn killed my mother,” the child responded sadly. Celia dropped to her knees, basket cast aside. She put a hand on the girl’s shoulder and forced another sweet on her.

Unexpectedly, Alistair crouched beside her and spoke to the girl: “Darkspawn are terrible, evil creatures. They killed a great many good people. Your mother, friends of mine too. But they cannot hurt anyone anymore; they have been driven back, destroyed.”

“How?” the girl sniffed.

“By the Grey Wardens. Great heroes whose whole purpose is to fight the Darkspawn threat. And they won, they beat them. They always do. They always will.” Alistair’s response was firm, confident. So why did Celia detect a note of regret in his tone? Who could possibly have any regrets about the Grey Warden victory?

“You fought them too?” the child asked, slightly awestruck despite her sadness.

“Yes, I did.”

“With a sword?” The girl’s round, watery eyes were staring up at Alistair with intensifying interest.

“Yes! Let me...let me show you...” He looked around and found two sticks. One he kept for himself and one he gave to the girl. Celia watched on with amusement as the group clustered around Alistair tittering excitedly. Alistair pointed to a fence post. “That, is a terrible, ugly, mean genlock and you, are carrying a sword.”

The girl wriggled her stick. “This?”

“Yes! And not just any sword. A magical sword, forged deep underground by the dwarves, with special Darkspawn repelling runes. Makes Darkspawn go ZAP,” Alistair explained as the girl wriggled her stick more enthusiastically. “Now, we are going to show this Darkspawn who is boss.”

“Huh?” The girl looked at him with evident confusion.

“Stab it!” another child provided, sounding impressively vicious.

Alistair gave the post a few thwacks with his stick and the girl quickly caught on. In fact, all the children did, rallying to join in. By the time the owner of the cottage emerged to see what the fuss was about, a full-frontal attack was being launched against her fence complete with children on their hands and knees pretending to be mabari and an archery line at the rear hurling pebbles.

Through embarrassed laughter, Celia rushed through the gate, dodging sticks and stones, and attempted to explain: “I am so sorry Mrs. Flint. The children are just venting some pent-up emotions. I assure you this is not a personal attack.” She had to speak loudly, to make herself heard above the war cries behind them.

“The children? Children indeed! Who is that man? And why were you hitting my fence with a carrot Celia?”

“It was a game,” Celia explained. Alistair seemed to have finally registered what was going on and was herding the children away before hurrying back to join Celia at the door.

“I apologise: that got a little out of control. I assure you there is no damage, but I would be happy to repaint your fence if it would ease your mind,” Alistair offered.

“Never mind that,” she flapped a dismissive hand at him. “Celia I would like to speak to you. Alone,” she finished sternly.

“Alistair,” Celia began.

“I can take those back to the inn,” he told her, indicating the baskets beyond the fence.

“Thank you. Please tell Red I will be there shortly.” He gave her a remorseful look, clearly thinking he had gotten her in trouble. Celia shook her head and smiled at him, waving him off.

“Not often I see those poor children having that much fun,” Mrs. Flint commented as he walked away, lugging the baskets. “He has a knack.”

“He certainly has something.” It was the most unselfconscious and open she had seen Alistair in their brief acquaintance. “How can I help you Mrs. Flint?” Celia had expected to be invited inside but Mrs. Flint stepped out onto her front step and closed the door behind her.

In hushed tones, she blurted: “I am very worried about Jonathon.”

“Mr. Flint – his heart still troubles him?”

“More than he lets on. But I cannot get him to slow down, he simply won’t rest. Is there anything you can do?”

“I can ease the symptoms if I see him now but in long term he simply _must_ work less to allow himself to recover.”

“How? How can I convince him when the orchard is his pride and joy? The late season apples are beginning to drop and we will lose the crop if no one harvests it for storage. There is only so much I can do!”

“Calm down.” Celia took the older woman’s hand gently. “I may have an idea about that. Let me get back to you.”

* * *

 

Alistair was illogically concerned that he had garnered Celia some ill will from the woman in the village, though he well knew that a disgruntled neighbour would be the least of her problems if – when he completed his task. He was waiting for her to return at a table in the front room. Winny had gratefully accepted the groceries and was putting them away in the kitchen. He had explained Celia’s delay by implying that she had simply run into someone she knew.

He was thrumming his fingers on the table when she burst through the door, saw him, and plopped down in the chair opposite. She seemed to be brimming with pent up excitement, her hair growing increasingly lopsided, escaped curls falling over her face.

“I got you a job!” she blurted and he shook his head at her in confusion. Her enthusiasm quickly dwindled as she sagged against the back of her chair. “That is, if you want. There is no obligation of course.”

“Thank you, but I don’t quite understand. That woman doesn’t want me to hit her fence with a stick on the regular does she?”

 “Not exactly no. They own a large plot of fruit trees out of town but her husband has been unwell and needs help. It would make for long days, and the job will only last as long as the harvest, but the work is honest and the pay would be fair.” Alistair stared at her. All the light had fled from her expression now. His ruse was suffering from not enthusiastically accepting the work. Why did he even have a ruse again? This was fast getting out of hand. He could admit it to himself: he was panicking a little. “It is yours, should you wish to accept it,” Celia added, looking defeated.

“I – of course I will. Thank you, Celia,” he answered, feeling a flicker of genuine warmth from her eagerness to help him. Celia brightened, letting out a tiny, relieved sigh and began relaying details to him at a rapid rate. Alistair attempted to nod at the appropriate moments, all while his mind was racing.

It couldn’t hurt to go along with this a little longer, all in the pursuit of solid evidence. He still wasn’t sure he had the right person (though clearly from the information of his employer it could be no one else). The coin from this harvesting work would pay for his board here, plus a little extra which was nothing to sniff at. Celia had no suspicions of his true motives and he knew from what he had overheard that she had no intention of leaving until after Winny gave birth. That gave him some time to work with.

If he captured her, collected the reward and payed off his debts, what was next for him? This kind of work endlessly for the rest of his life? Or another downward spiral into near destitution? Alistair looked into the smiling face of the woman opposite him and had the strangest sensation of being awash at sea and seeing an island in the distance.

The knowledge that she seemed to trust him unquestioningly made him feel suddenly queasy.

* * *

 

Very suddenly, it was like Alistair had always been there. Celia would find wood brought in and piled neatly in the kitchen, buckets from the well filled before she got to them, the fire stoked before she thought to check it and drinks served while she was distracted. He seemed unable to resist helping out when he saw an opportunity and had quickly ingratiated himself in their daily routine.

Celia started packing him lunches for work; bread, hard cheese, sausage, a boiled egg and whatever else the larder provided. His coins were now refused by all when he had dinner at night. Celia began arriving early to work more frequently and they would all eat breakfast together.

“I just wanted to check on Winny,” Celia told a sceptical Red one morning.

“Your concern is touching,” he replied, unconvinced but amused.

Alistair was still guarded, though increasingly opened up during conversations. In every anecdote he shared however, it was obvious to all listening that details were intentionally left out. Where he was raised was a mystery still, though he was obviously educated. No credit was given to the origin of his combat training and while friends were alluded to, they often remained unnamed, or were spoken of in past tense.

Celia did not resent this; Maker knew she had enough of her own secrets. While it was not her intention specifically to hide her status as a mage and apostate from Alistair, especially when more than half the village were well aware, it was easier not to raise the issue. Celia was never certain of how the news would be received and some people reacted worse than others.

Partly, she kept it quiet because she didn’t think she could stand her own disappointment if he reacted badly.

One morning not long after breakfast, Celia found herself deeply focused plaiting pastry to border a lattice over an apple pie for their supper that night. Winny surveyed her careful work as she paused between drying dishes.

“You have been putting in an awful lot of effort lately.”

“Nothing wrong with trying to make things look appetising,” Celia replied defensively.

“Making what appetising to whom exactly?” When Celia didn’t reply, concentrating intently on her pastry, Winny tried a different tact: “He seems so surprised, every time someone is kind to him. Like a stray kitten.”

Celia did not need to ask who she was speaking of. “I know. Sometimes he seems so distant and aged beyond his years; Maker knows what he has been through. But then other times, he is like a little boy: so eager and joyful.”

“Celia, I can’t tell if you want to adopt him or take him to your bed.”

“Winny!”

“I am sorry but you are obviously fascinated by him. And he you! Red and I think we could get up and move to a different table most mealtimes and neither one of you would notice, so determinedly you stare across at each other.”

“That is hardly –”

“The pub could burn down around you and neither of you would break your gaze long enough to contemplate where the smoke might be coming from!” Winny continued.

“I do not stare,” Celia protested weakly, accidentally squashing part of her delicate pastry work.

“No, it is all,” Winny fluttered her eyelashes and fanned herself with a plate, “coy glances.” Winny let out a high-pitched giggle. “‘Oh Alistair, tell me again about the time you fought an ogre!’’” A long streamer of apple peel went flying across the kitchen and hit Winny across the shoulder who only laughed and started to eat it.

“Honestly! You know that isn’t the case and you know very well that is not an option for me. Not with my…lifestyle, it couldn’t possibly be,” Celia said, flustered and irritated.

Winny’s mirth faded rapidly away. “Celia dear, you deserve better than this life. You know that don’t you?”

“It matters not what I deserve. I made my choices, I have my freedom. Or a form of it at any rate.” Celia tried to brave a smile but suddenly felt desolate. Winny rushed to her side.

“I went too far,” she consoled. “What choice did you have really? And now they hunt you like an animal,” she said sounding disgusted.

Celia ran her fingers through the flour on the bench making absentminded patterns. When Jowan had come to her, of course she had agreed to help him. She would have seized the same opportunity so how could she deny him that chance? As they made their way towards the phylactery chamber she had wished hers might still be there too, though she knew that with her Harrowing completed it couldn’t.

And then, whether by clerical error or divine intervention, it was. Her fist closed around the strangely warm glass and she thought she felt it pulsating like a beating heart. Surprised, it fell from her fingers, clattering and bouncing across the cobblestones before rolling to a stop. Without another thought, Celia crushed it under the heel of her boot.

Then they were cornered. Lily backed away, repulsed as she was by Jowan’s blood magic. Celia was repulsed too, horrified at what she had helped Jowan to achieve even unintentionally. But unlike Lily she stood rigid and dumbstruck beside him. Jowan grabbed her wrist and before she even realised it, they were out.

After vomiting on the first grass she had seen since being taken to the tower as a child, she had come to her senses and fled, leaving Jowan to his own fate, half hoping the Templars would catch him. How could he have been so nearsighted? How could she have been so stupid, never to have realized what he was really doing?

Fear had made her blind and she had been so, so afraid. Never to that point had the Templars done anything more than unnerve her, but when a new regiment arrived, _He_ came with them.

Before that she had been content enough to live out her life in the Circle, seeing no other options. But she became desperate through her fear and maybe Jowan sensed that, knew it mirrored his own desperation. This new templar was so relentless in his pursuit, so meticulous in his torment of her, but always so careful. It would have been her word against his and no one trusted a mage.

“Cece,” Winny said gently, the dwarf reaching to place a hand on Celia’s fist, which had clenched around a ball of pastry. “Don’t think about it. You are safe here.”

Reaching for the rolling pin to resume her work with a shaky hand, Celia nodded, but was not so certain.


	4. Meddle

Celia woke abruptly, panting and with a sheen of sweat making her skin clammy in the frigid morning air. Her heart was beating erratically and she tried to swallow down her panic and breathe. Pushing back the faded patchwork quilt on her bed, she swung her bare feet onto the cold hardwood floor, the icy shock helping to ground her back in reality.

“Winny,” she thought as the turmoil of her agitated mind calmed. “I promised I would wait for Winny.” She had started to repeat this like a mantra silently throughout each day, especially at times like this, when the only thing stronger than the sudden rush of overwhelming fear was the knowledge that her friend needed her help.

Celia stood and stretched, peering out the window to absorb the reassuring peacefulness of the early morning and let it chase away the shadows of her nightmare. All was quiet in the surrounding woods, just a few birds warming up before their morning choir began in earnest as the first of the rosy dawn light brushed over the highest reaching branches.

Reassured she was safe and alone, Celia set about her morning routine, setting the kettle on the stove and brushing out her sleep tangled hair. As she worked at her domestic tasks she felt a rush of fondness for her isolated little home. It was a modest, one room affair with a small but cosy wood burner. More importantly: the cottage was a perfect secret between herself and dear Custer.

The harvest was being brought in, the day Celia had arrived in the outskirts of the village. It was also the day a group of fleeing darkspawn had stormed a paddock of terrified farm workers, mostly women and children. Custer had been there, the aged soldier, scythe in hand, telling the others to run for help.

He was dreadfully outnumbered, and the result would have been catastrophic had Celia not rounded the corner at the moment that his left leg was nearly severed at the knee. She saw him crumple, and her magic surged forth without hesitation, paralysing the remaining three darkspawn. Custer, half delirious, watched in amazement as she approached to finish them.

“Trust me or you will die,” were Celia’s first words to him and he mustered the energy to consent before falling into the merciful dark of unconsciousness. She wanted to save the leg but it was too far gone and she did not have the skill.

A horse galloped towards them as Celia worked. Red had rushed to help having been intercepted on his errand by the terrified group from the field. Celia remained crouched over Custer, one hand hovering and glimmering with healing white light, the other raised to halt Red.

“I am helping him,” she said calmly.

“I can see that,” Red replied, with no intention of interrupting her. He stared awestruck first at her magic, then at the felled darkspawn, some clearly untouched by the scythe on the ground, even as its blade dripped with malignant black blood.

They took Custer to the inn and not long after, Celia decided the leg must be removed. Winny bound the wound. Though Celia was frightened of his reaction upon waking, Custer had already realized the extent of the damage, even through his pain and shock. When his eyes fluttered open, Celia withdrew her hand nervously, clutching a damp flannel, but he caught it and kissed her fingers, thanking her for saving his life.

When Winny and Red were out of the room he told her: “I have a place you can stay. A secret place. An old hunter’s cabin in the wood that not a soul knows of but me and my long-departed mother.”

And relief had flooded Celia because she knew that for a time she could stop, and for a time she would be safe. She cleaned the cottage from top to bottom, patched the roof, repaired the flooring and put new hinges on the door. With the fire lit, a few rugs and a vase of wildflowers on the windowsill it did not take long for Celia to feel truly cozy.

 For many long, happy months she had lived in the most peace and security an apostate could possibly be afforded but now it had started again. It always did.

That instinctive hammering deep in her core, the instinct that told her it was time to move on, that the boundaries of her luck had been pushed far enough and that she _must_ leave. It was churning in her gut, day in day out, hampering her ability concentrate, leaving her pushing food around her plate. It was a restless impatience and a visceral anxiety like the taste of bile burning at the back of her throat.

It was the familiar, mounting fear that told her it was time to run.

* * *

 

Alistair was in deep trouble. He had not needed to receive the note to know that, but it starkly reaffirmed it all the same.

Having slept late, he was splashing cold water on his face in an effort to rouse himself when recognized Winny’s careful, heavy footsteps on the floorboard before she had slipped the sealed envelope under his door.

For a letter to arrive at this hour, it had likely come overnight by urgent courier. Jaw clenched, he broke the familiar seal.

_“You are taking too long. – E”_

Edleth, of course, giving Alistair a nudge on behalf of his employer. Obviously, he had not delivered the apostate yet, but Alistair wondered if they were following his progress, or lack thereof another way: a spy. He felt the sudden urge to look out of the window but there were only a few ravens, hopping about and scratching through some loose straw scattered on the cobblestones near the stable.

Alistair _was_ taking a long time. He knew that. Obviously.

The problem was _she_ still hadn’t done anything noteworthy and apostate-y.

The problem was he was starting to like it here.

The problem was he was starting to like her.

Downstairs, Alistair found Celia packing a basket with food. “A day off?” she had asked as he leaned against the bench, hands in his pockets, scuffing his feet. Now smouldering in his fireplace upstairs, the note had left him uneasy and he was trying to keep himself distracted which was difficult as he had been told not to go into work that day.

“Flint said he had other things to attend to. I offered to work on but he doesn’t like me doing anything when he can’t be there to…oversee,” Alistair explained unenthusiastically.

“Sounds like him. What does he think you would do? Start reattaching apples to the trees?” She placed some apples in the basket, as if the comment had jogged her memory.

“No doubt; harvesting is a very complex and intricate process. Do I place the apple in the crate or throw it in the river? I am never certain, thank the Maker for the wisdom of my supervisor.”

Celia touched a fresh loaf of bread with her fingertips. “Still warm, hand me that towel.” He did, and she carefully wrapped it and placed it in the basket too.

“Are you going on a picnic? I can’t say the weather calls for it. Courageous of you really.” While there had not yet been any snowfall and the rain was holding off, it was still blowing a tremendous gale.

“Not quite, tempting though. I am visiting Custer. You met him the first night you arrived here.”

“Ah yes, the one who didn’t slam the door in a huff.’

“That’s him.” She gave him an unreadable look over the jam she was decanting into a small pot. “Would you like to come with me? He enjoys company.” She sucked the last of the jam off the spoon and looked expectantly at him.

Alistair was a little taken back by the invitation. Did she really want him trailing along or was she asking out of politeness? “Yes, alright,” he finally answered.

She dropped the spoon into the washtub and began to pick out some eggs. “Then cut a piece of that cheese off and wrap it for me.” Alistair did as he was told, still unable to interpret her mood but relieved that she had accepted his affirmative response with equanimity.

The cold wind was biting and they spoke little on the walk through the village, hoods raised and using their scarves to cover their faces as much as possible, exposed skin numbing and turning pink. Celia paused at the gate of a cottage, using her hip to force it open through a slightly overgrown garden. A path had been cut through the plants to the front door, but Alistair heard a curse as Celia attempted to brush aside a drooping rose trellis over the door. It was caught on her sleeve and her attempts to remove it were causing more thorns to snag at the material. He placed the basket down to help detangle her from the unruly plant, letting out a curse of his own as a thorn punctured his finger.

“Thank you, but are you alright?” Celia asked, peering at the drop of blood.

“The sacrifice was worth it,” Alistair said gallantly. “And I will live. Probably.” he sucked on the tiny wound with a shrug.

“I need to get out here and prune; it has been let go far too long. He is going to wake up one morning and the door won’t open for creeping vines and brambles.” She knocked tersely. They waited patiently until the unmistakable clacking of crutches inside heralded Custer’s approach. The door creaked open.

“Celia!” He sounded delighted. “And companion,” he finished looking inquisitively at Alistair.

“Alistair,” Celia informed him, speaking loudly to be heard over the wind. “You have met, in a manner of speaking. And I believe I mentioned we have had a guest staying at the inn.”

“Ah yes, I do recall. You did mention him. Once or twice. Or more.”

“Custer,” Celia said sharply and Alistair caught a smirk on the man’s face before he turned away. They followed him into the welcoming warmth of the cottage.

“Where would you like the basket?” Alistair asked.

“Ah, she is your boss too then,” Custer said in a sympathetic tone.

“I am not your boss Custer,” Celia told him.

“Why do I do everything you tell me to then?” he teased.

“Because you know I am always right.” Celia directed Alistair to deposit the basket on a large, rough surfaced dining table so that she could begin to unpack it, taking up the bundles and walking them into a room that Alistair assumed must be the kitchen.

Custer spied the pot of jam with a gasp as she walked past. “Is that jam? Celia, you are truly the most wonderful, generous, magnificent creature ever to have existed.”

“Maker! And you haven’t even seen the seed cake yet!” she yelled from the other room.

Alistair stood to one side feeling awkward and out of place. It felt like he was intruding on a family reunion. “Shall I put the kettle on?” Custer asked.

“I am already doing it. Just sit down and relax,” Celia called back. Abruptly, she poked her head around the doorframe and her eyes set on Alistair who was pretending to admire the floor rug. “You too,” she told him.

There were several comfortable looking armchairs near the fire that looked like they had seen a lifetime of use. Both men took a seat and sat in silence for a time. Alistair’s eyes were drawn to an enormous, overflowing bookshelf, brimming with papers and tomes. “That always catches Celia’s eye too. She is a big reader. Are you?” Custer asked.

“No, not really to be honest. I like a good tale, but never seem to have the patience to settle with a book,” Alistair answered as Celia bustled back into the room to gather more goods from the basket. “I can read though,” he added quickly, mostly for her benefit though she did not appear to be listening. Alistair watched her return to the kitchen. When he looked at Custer again, he found the other man staring with a pointed, contemplative look. Feeling scrutinised, Alistair cleared his throat. “You obviously read a lot,” he said to break the silence.

“I do now, though this collection was compiled largely by my late wife.” He sighed. “When she was alive I barely touched them, always something else to do. Never quite understood her fascination. I can finally see what she got out of them. Little enough else to pass the time with at my age. Too late to tell her though, dear woman.”

“I am sorry,” Alistair said sincerely.

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago, and I am grateful she did not have to endure bearing witness to suffering this Blight wrought at least,” Custer told him.

“There is a kind of mercy in that I suppose.”

“It is over now; no point in dwelling.” Alistair did not answer, looking down at his clasped hands. “But you do dwell, don’t you?” Custer said quietly.

“What?” Alistair snapped, caught off-guard. He could hear Celia laying out crockery in the kitchen, and water being poured.

“I recognise a fellow soldier. The wars never end for us, not here,” he pointed to his head. “The best we can hope to do is to quiet the din, silence the ghosts.”

“And how exactly does one accomplish that?” Alistair asked, curious but still a little suspicious at this unexpected turn in the conversation.

“Not an easy question to answer.”

“Well the answer _isn’t_ at the bottom of a tankard: that possibility I have thoroughly explored already,” Alistair said, surprised at his own candidness.  

“You are not the first to seek answers there. But you need to find something that grounds you. You must keep a firm hold of reality, not try to escape it.” Custer told him emphatically, clenching his fists.

Alistair let out a short chuckle of cynical laughter. “I am not sure I _like_ reality for the most part.”

“Then focus on the parts you do like. I get the feeling there is hope for you yet, to free yourself of the anchor at your neck.”

Alistair was silent for a long moment, clueless of how to respond. “I hope you’re right,” he finally said, knowing he sounded unconvinced.

“I may not be right but Celia thinks a lot of you and she usually is,” Custer gave him a crooked smile, eyes twinkling and Alistair felt a twang of guilt and looked away.

As if summoned, Celia returned with the tea tray at that moment and gave them a surprised look. “Goodness, this looks serious.”

“We were just discussing whether or not there would be cake on the tray, fearing it might be the latter,” Custer said grimly.

“ _Of course_ there is cake; do you think I am a monster? Honestly Custer it is like you don’t know me at all.” She set the tray down, poured three cups of tea. “Accusing me of not providing cake!” she tutted again to herself before selecting an armchair and plonking down into it with a relieved sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Long morning?” Custer asked.

“Yes, long week. But I can’t let Winny know that. Let me partake in a little self-indulgent huffing while I am here.”

“You are more than welcome to,” Custer replied. “A lot on your plate with Winny largely laid up?”

“Yes. Though fortunately, Alistair has been a big help,” Celia said.

Custer slapped his knee and turned to Alistair. “I knew she was your boss! What a hard task master! Guest or slave I wonder,” he speculated, clearly delighted.

“He volunteers, actually,” Celia told the old man with exaggerated haughtiness.

“Only because I am too afraid not to,” Alistair added slyly over the rim of his cup.

“Hey!” Celia objected. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I had known you were going to gang up on me.”

She tried to look annoyed but when Alistair lowered his head and muttered: “Sorry Mistress,” in a woebegone voice she and Custer both dissolved into laughter.

* * *

 

The rest of the tea past pleasantly, the pot finished and the cake demolished: more eagerly by Custer or Alistair it was difficult to say.

Just as Celia was wondering if there was a way to get a few moments alone with Custer, Alistair got out of his seat with purpose and began scanning the room.

Celia gave him a confused look. “What do you suddenly looks so determined about? There is no more cake I’m afraid, search as you might.”

“Do you have gardening tools Custer? I am going to prune that rose trellis at the door.”

“Yes, end of the hall on the right. That thing is a menace, I would be most grateful.”

They watched him collect the tools and leave. Celia waited until she heard the front door close before she returned to her basket and spoke: “I have some potions for the pain. A few drops, morning and night. Absolutely no more: it is potent. These should last you a very long time. I’ll put them in the kitchen, top drawer on the left.”

“Thank you, Celia. You are my salvation, as always,” Custer said warmly when she returned. “Now, are you going to tell me why you brought him along?” he asked, bobbing his head in the direction of the front door.

“Him? Oh. He was bored, that is all,” Celia flopped down into the chair Alistair had vacated, expression nonchalant. Custer raised an eyebrow and Celia quickly relented. “Oh fine: you know me too well. I was hoping he would say something to you. Did he?” she asked, a bit too eagerly.

“Yes, he said ‘something’ certainly.”

Celia let out an exasperated sigh. “You know what I mean! Soldier stuff, or about his life or family or…anything.”

“Soldier stuff?” Custer shook his head and chuckled and Celia looked chagrined. “You know I adore you Celia, but I am not about to start spying for you.”

“I just feel like I know less about him the more time we spend together. It is like working on a puzzle without being sure you actually have all the pieces.”

“I know he seems a good lad, and that I like him, and that you do too.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I’ve heard you talking about him. I’ve heard Winny talking about you talking about him too.”

Celia rolled her eyes. “Oh Maker, here we go.”

Custer continued unperturbed. “I know you like him quite a lot and that it frightens you so you don’t trust it and now you are looking for something to prove that you shouldn’t feel that way about him.” Custer steepled his fingers under his chin thoughtfully. “What I am not certain about is whether you were hoping I would prove you right or wrong.”

“Well,” Celia said feeling a little gobsmacked. “Aren’t you full of insights today?”

“If you push him to talk before he is ready he will close up further. Give it time.”

Celia lowered her eyes and straightened her skirts in an agitated fashion. “I don’t _have_ a lot of time to give. This is just philosophical really; I am curious about him. That is all,” she said firmly.

There was a long pause. “Is it true? That you don’t have a lot of time?” Custer asked sadly.

Celia cursed herself internally for being so careless with her wording. “You know I cannot stay forever. I wish I could, truly, I have been so happy here, thanks largely to you.”

Celia watched the old man’s face, sensed him quashing down emotion. “Of course, you must keep yourself safe.” He braved a smile which she returned. “I did wonder why you had brought so many potions for me.”

“I am not about to leave you completely high and dry.”

“May I know when you intend to leave?”

“After Red and Winny’s baby is born. I want to see it safely into the world.”

“Of course. And will you come to see me before you go?”

Celia leaned across and took his hand. “I promise. And I will see you plenty before then too.”

Custer looked as if he was considering saying something else but decided against it. “Come on, I should send you home with your friend before he freezes in place out there though I daresay a feature statue would go nicely with the overall look of the garden.”

As Celia shoved open the front door against the wind she let out a gasp and Custer began to cackle with his head thrown back.

The rose trellis was as good as gone, pruned back so hard that any hope of it blooming again was questionable at best. Alistair stood amongst the carnage looking sheepish.

“I uh, may have taken a little bit too much off…” Head lowered, Alistair gave them a guilty look as the wind whipped leaves and twigs from the decimated plant about his feet.

“Alistair, I think you murdered it! Is this just because it pricked you?” Celia asked.

“I got carried away! It was an accident.”

“Riiight,” Celia said sounding sceptical. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Between gasps of laughter, Custer just managed to express that he didn’t mind at all and that it would save him a lot of trouble in the future. He waved them off before retreating back inside.

“Good thing you are here for the apple harvesting and not in pruning season,” Celia told Alistair. “You wouldn’t have lasted a day.”

“Alright, I can’t be good at everything,” Alistair said a little defensively.

Feeling sympathetic Celia patted his shoulder. “Custer is right: it is probably for the best. It only would have caused the same problem next year. We should go home; I can’t stand this wind.”

Bundling up against the bluster once more, they set of together. Celia was glad to wrap her scarf about her face again to hide her sudden discomfort.

They trudged back, Celia keeping her face lowered, feeling melancholy. She did not think Alistair had noticed but she had not meant to call the inn ‘home’ and as soon as the word had slipped from her lips, a punch of sorrow had reverberated in her chest that ached more with every step.


	5. Falter

It was getting late into the evening and the bar lulled with the kind of mid-week quiet that was to be expected. There were only a few tables of guests and they seemed well tended to. Red was outside the kitchen, plucking a goose by lamp light and Winny had stayed upstairs to rest. Alistair took a seat by the fire and Celia joined him a few moments later with two bowls of lamb soup, scented with rosemary and thick with roughly chopped potato and carrot. As was usual, cutlery was produced from her apron pocket.

They ate, staring into the flames, the small table between them. Alistair ate absentmindedly. As it often had been over the last few days, his mind was occupied by Edleth’s note and the words unwritten but nonetheless clearly conveyed. His employer was growing impatient. He knew instinctively that the message was a last warning before they chose another course of action. But what exactly? That particular unknown troubled him more than anything.

“How was work?” Celia asked, and startled, he shifted his gaze towards her with a guilty jerk of his head. She watched him through dark eyelashes, her face tilted towards her soup and Alistair felt his heart begin to beat more loudly, glad she couldn’t know the turmoil of his uneasy thoughts.

“I lifted and carried satisfactorily to the best of my knowledge. No whippings today,” he answered as glibly as he could manage.

“Ha! With Mr. Flint I can’t actually tell if you are joking or not – that man certainly has an edge.”

“That he does. Not the worst man I have worked for by far. Though the endless pelting with apples is rough…” Alistair let a little sniff of mock despair.

“Oh, toughen up!” Celia retorted, rolling her eyes. “We have _all_ have to work with fruit and vegetable missiles at least once.”

“But I bruise easily!” Alistair whined.

“Are you getting bored of it? The work? You seem to have more potential than…this.”

“Bored? Of apple picking? Barrow pushing? Sack heaving? Perish the thought!” Alistair said as Celia  leaned across the table and smacked him lightly on the arm. “Hey!” he protested. “I just said I bruise easily.”

“Alistair, seriously,” Celia implored.

“Impossible. Seriousness goes against my nature.”

Celia exhaled loudly. “Are you always so evasive?” she asked sounding exasperated.

“Funny word, evasive…”

“Slippery then. Fennec-like.”

“Alright, I get it. _Maybe_ I am starting to pass the time by imagining the apples names and backstories…But I am grateful for work; coin is coin. And it makes for a nice change of pace I suppose.” Alistair felt an urgent need to steer the subject away from himself. “And what about you? And this?” He gestured around the bar.

“Me? I am…not really qualified for anything else.” She had chosen her words carefully, Alistair noted.

“But is this job everything you dreamed it would be and more?”

“I enjoy working here!” she answered defensively. “And what is not to love about endless baskets of linens, self-regenerating dishes and grizzly customers?”

Alistair knitted his brows and tried to look offended. “I do hope that I am not counted amongst that number.”

“You’re the worst. The absolute grizzliest,” Celia failing to supress a small, fond smile that betrayed her assertion and said the opposite.

“I hate how delicious this soup is and how comfortable the bed is. Ugh, so much softer than a ditch! Where is the mud? Where are the beetles? How could I possibly relax without them?”

“There you go again,” Celia sighed. “Your hatred of comfort knows no bounds.”

“What can I say? I just miss that barn atmosphere of my childhood. The smell, the straw, the rats…”

“You used to sleep in a barn as a child?” Celia asked, slightly alarmed.

“No! Well, yes. For a time.” Drat. Dangerously at ease, Alistair had given something away and he couldn’t think of a way out of it except to provide further explanation. “I was raised by…someone like a…a benefactor of sorts. But his new wife came on the scene and...disliked me. I spent some time in the barn to give her space, out of a mutual agreement really, until I moved to a new living situation,” Alistair conceded reluctantly.

“That is horrible! You got sent away, just because of a whim of the new wife?”

“Evidently she felt I deserved it. My presence and history was…a big sticking point.”

“I can’t imagine a child doing _anything_ to warrant such treatment,” Celia said with indignant emphasis.

“Perhaps not. But leaving may have been for the best, in some ways,” Alistair said with a shrug.

They both watched as a log crumbled to embers sending out a cascade of bright orange sparks, making the whole fire pop and crackle with renewed vigour. Alistair’s face felt hot. He fidgeted, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows.

Celia gave Alistair a sly, sideways look that made him nervous. “Did you just accidentally actually tell me something about yourself?” she asked, barely containing her glee.

Alistair cleared his throat which made her laugh, a real laugh, shaking her hair back and exposing her throat. He definitely felt flushed, too close to the fire maybe. “It is this persistent, earnest interest of yours. Hard to combat: I am unaccustomed to it. Now you know,” he sighed. “Barn boy.”

“I suppose you won’t tell me where you went next then? After the barn?”

No. Alistair was not particularly keen to inform the apostate he was supposed to be hunting that he after the barn he had begun training as a templar. “Well,” he began but was spared a refusal by the front door of the inn banging open, hurled from a newcomer’s grasp by a strong wind.

“Celia!” the young girl called, scanning the room for her.

“I am here!” Celia replied quickly, rising and half dropping her bowl, dregs of soup splattering the table.

“Celia please, I need your help,” she called, staggering a few steps closer. Celia ran to her, weaving through the tables and confused patrons with no small amount of agility.

“Ellen,” she said as she reached the girl before giving Alistair a quick, concerned look. Carefully guiding the girl by the arms, Celia turned her back on him so he could no longer see their faces. They talked in hurried, soft voices, the girl becoming increasingly agitated and panicked as she explained whatever circumstances troubled her. The rest of the bar had fallen into an anticipatory silence.

“Red?” Celia called across the room, her voice calm and certain, but Alistair sensed an urgency in her tone.

“Of course,” he replied. Winny, having heard the kerfuffle from upstairs, had already gathered up Celia’s cloak and bag and was offering them to her.  Celia took them and wrenching open the door, stepped back into the night and storm without even pausing to put on her cloak on or take her apron off.

Alistair was on his feet and hadn’t even realised it.

That, now _that_ was definitely _something_.

The rest of the room returned to conversational murmurs, reasonably unperturbed by what had just taken place. Alistair hesitated, wondering if it would be too obvious if he were to follow the women out. A glance confirmed Red was watching him, so he reluctantly sat.

Winny brought him a drink and cleared the bowls without him speaking, quickly wiping up the spilled soup. “What was that about?” he finally asked bluntly.

“Probably nothing. That girl is always in a flap about something or rather.” It was not like Winny to sound nervous but there was a hesitation in the dwarf’s voice tonight. Alistair nodded, hoping she would leave him be, which she did. He drained the tankard and went up to his room, earlier than usual.

“Long day?” Red called after him.

“Yep,” Alistair replied. “Something like that,” he muttered under his breath.

Too agitated to think practically, he did not undress, or tend to his fire, and spent the night cold and tense, dozing intermittently, slumped in a chair by the window, listening to the trees thrash in the howling winds and rain peppering the glass.

Carriage wheels finally woke him hours later and he jerked upright. The storm had mostly abated now, and the light was cold, predawn grey.

Alistair watched as the carriage pulled up at the front of the inn and Celia stepped out into the gentle rain. She closed the door behind her but paused to speak to someone at the window. She was shaking her head vigorously but a hand extended from inside the carriage offering a hefty looking coin purse. Celia accepted it, the hand holding hers for a moment before she stepped away and the carriage drove on. Celia watched it leave, waving, then turned towards the inn.

A sudden gust of wind snatched at her unfastened cloak and wrenched it open. Horror seized Alistair’s heart. In the pale monochrome of the morning, her apron was shockingly vivid; bright scarlet with fresh blood stains.

Celia quickly pulled her cloak about herself, grappling with the unruly fabric as Alistair staggered back from the window. He was not certain, but in that last fraction of a moment he had thought he had seen Celia's face begin to turn upwards towards his room.

What in the name of the Maker had she been up to? His mind scrabbled for an explanation.

Perhaps Edleth had been right: all apostates were the same. Perhaps the lure of blood magic just too great to resist with the shackles of the Chantry broken and Celia was no exception. Why else would she be sloshing blood around with reckless abandon?

Alistair crept to his door and opened it, just a crack and waited. He heard Celia’s footsteps on the stairs, then the door to Red and Winny’s rooms opened.

“How is Winny?” Celia asked quietly.

Red responded: “Absolutely fine, nothing to make note of. You?”

“It is under control now.”

“You should have gone straight home; you must be tired.”

“They insisted on bringing me back by carriage. I had to come here.”

“Leave when you are ready, we can manage for the day.”

“I will get a head start on some things, then perhaps go,” Celia answered.

“Don’t push yourself too hard,” Red told her firmly. The door closed and Celia’s footsteps retreated back down the stairs.

Alistair’s mind was in turmoil, his pulse racing. His brain must be addled. What could he have been thinking, to have been so easily misled for so long? To have been convinced that because he liked someone they must be good? A child would have known better and been less naïve.

This was a brand-new form of stupidity, even by his standards. He hit the heel of his hand against his forehead in frustration. Blood on her dress! Would any other proof have convinced him? What other evidence had he managed to overlook, distracted by her pretty smile? What else would she have had to have done to break through the veil of his idiocy, so effectively blinding him to her? Walk a tame demon on a leash?

Without really thinking about it and without any kind of plan, Alistair followed her downstairs, his tread careful so as not to disturb Red and Winny. A steady thunk of wood being chopped gave away that she was outside. The kitchen door was open and he stepped through. He watched from the step as the axe fell and she raised it again, arms shaking slightly.

It had to be today. He would find an opportunity to subdue her by any means possible. Without disrupting or hurting Winny and Red if he could help it. This could be the moment perhaps? He could be gone before the sun had even fully risen. She was unaware of his presence, already weakened from her night of activity - some kind of summoning probably. That would have been draining, Alistair knew. It was the perfect time to strike. More than perfect.

But his traitorous heart balked, and his stomach lurched at the thought of having to hurt her.

He ground his teeth in frustration at his own irresoluteness. Perhaps she really had bewitched him.

“You look tired,” he said abruptly.

“Alistair!” She half dropped the axe and a hand went to her heart. She had put on a fresh apron, starkly white and clean in contrast to what he had seen earlier. “You startled me.”

“I was just saying that you look tired,” he repeated impassively, tone measured. She did look tired, her face was pale but for purple, bruise-like circles under her eyes. Even her lips looked chalky. Somehow, even now, he couldn’t resist walking to her and taking up the axe, sparing her from the work.

“Thank you,” she said hesitantly, but did not refuse his assistance. Celia stepped back and he split the log she had been working on easily and put another on the block. “I did not get much sleep,” she conceded.

“What were you doing?” Another log splintered in half and he used his foot to push the pieces aside.

“Nothing! I never said I was doing anything. I just did not sleep well,” she lied.

“Is that so?”

“Alistair…Is something the matter?” Celia asked, jumping slightly as he swung the axe heavily once more, leaving it embedded in the block. He turned to her, arms folded across his chest.

“Just trying to figure you out,” he replied, his voice cold. Her mouth gaped for a moment as she struggled for words and failed to find them. This was his chance, she must suspect something now, something of his interest in her, his motives. Perhaps she did see him watching from the window. The longer he waited to make his move the more time she had to prepare a defence. He willed himself to act but still nothing happened.

Her hands were twisting together uncertainly and she was biting her bottom lip but neither of them broke the impasse by speaking.

“Celia, can I have some help?” Red called from somewhere in the kitchen. Alistair knew he could still do it. Red was too far away to intervene and Celia may be on her guard now, but she would not reckon for him having the skills of templar. He had to do it and it had to be now.

She had forced his hand. His arms dropped as he attempted to ready himself.

“What-whatever you think you saw Alistair –” Celia stuttered. She took a step towards him, hand outstretched and he flinched back. Her face was stricken, eyes wide and dismayed. “Alistair,” she said again, softly this time and he felt the anger in him wane and flicker, like a candle in a draught. He just could not seem to merge the memory of the bloody apron and the implications it heralded with the woman before him now.

Maker, she was playing him like a fiddle.

“Celia?” Red called again and with a final, remorseful look, she turned and walked away from him.

He let her go, fists clenched uselessly at his sides.

* * *

 

At a loss of what else to do, Alistair went to work, the day passing in a haze of barked orders and crates of fruit.

Returning, dragging his feet to the inn that afternoon as the sun set, he found no sign of Celia and wondered if she had run; gone for the hills, capitalising on the opportunity his foolish indecision had provided her. Maker had he blown it. He was pouring himself a drink at the bar when Red entered. Bottle in hand, Alistair was embarrassed by the presumption but Red was unfazed, seeming distracted.

“Alistair. I was hoping you would be back soon. Winny and Celia went out earlier and I need to leave urgently.” Red sounded strained, Alistair had never seen him so flustered as he rushed to pack a bag.

Alistair’s ears perked up. “What is going on? Where are they?”

“Foraging, not far,” he said offhandedly. He was either a very good actor, or Celia had expressed no concerns to him. “But Custer just came to tell me a big section of fence and a barn went down at the Herbert’s last night in the storm and their whole flock is out. By the time I ride out there and get into it this will likely be an overnight job. Got to get ‘em in before this next lot of weather hits. Looks nasty.”

“Oh, can I help?” Alistair offered, though was unsure as to what help he could actually be. He had a sudden image of him tackling a sheep.

“I know you would happily lend a hand but the more experienced amongst us can probably have the sheep back and the fence up quicker,” Red answered tactfully. “It would help me more if you held down this place: you don’t need to open the bar; most of the regulars will be out with me. Just keep an eye out for the women, make sure they get back safe.”

“I can do that.” Alistair’s mouth had gone dry.

“Thanks, they will know where I have gone. Custer caught them as they left and filled them in.”

“Okay,” Alistair managed to choke out. Red pulled his cloak on and picked up a bag of tools.

“My horse is saddled, I’ll be off. See you in the morning.”

“See you then, Red.”

Alistair downed his glass and as Red closed the door, poured another. It was not impossible that this was a ruse, and that Celia had already fled, and that the rest of this tale, including Winny’s absence were in place as a distraction. But what could he do? If Celia had run, he had no leads and no ideas. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to try and follow her, even if he did have any notion of where she may have gone.

Which he did not.

Another mouthful of liquor burned down his throat.

His fingers closed around the neck of the bottle and he gritted his teeth.

Celia was probably already long gone after his display this morning.

Alistair felt a growing certainty casting itself over him like a shadow: he would never see her again.

* * *

 

Hours had passed and Alistair’s back was aching. He had slept in a chair? Still? No: again. He was in the bar and the fire had burned low: chalky, neglected embers barely glowing orange. He was aware of someone near him, their hands on his shoulders. He could see a face but struggled to focus on it.

“Alistair?” a voice said. He jumped and the chair skidded backwards. “Sorry! It is me! Celia!” His hand left the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

“Celia? You came back,” he said groggily, still sleep dazed. He was clutching the half bottle of drink; mercifully he must have drifted off before consuming any more of it.

“Back? From where? Alistair, please help me. Please," Celia pleaded. Utterly confused, Alistair groped for a table in the dim light and put the bottle down.

He heard her let out a frustrated hiss before the room flared into sharp focus as a burst of flames from Celia’s fingertips reignited the fire. Alistair finally snapped fully awake and blinked, dumbstruck.

Celia was gazing imploringly at him and he looked from the magically blazing fire, back to her face which he suddenly realised was streaked with tears.


	6. Urgency

Alistair was sitting bolt upright now. “Celia,” he began gently. He wanted her to reach out to him again so he could take her hand but she stayed leaning back from him, watching him uncertainly. His chest felt tight and he had a strong need to do something, anything, but couldn’t begin to think what exactly.

“I need to tell you something,” she said in a shaky voice.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, despite how distraught Celia looked, Alistair let out a brief, breathy laugh. “It would seem so.” Eyes glazed and thoughts clearly elsewhere, Celia did not react. There were leaves in her hair and a long scratch on her cheek that was beading bright red drops of blood in jarring contrast to her pale skin. He pushed himself out of his chair and taking her by the forearms, tried to guide her to sit down but she resisted him, shaking her head furiously and pulling her arms free. “What is it?” he asked, concern growing by the second.

 “Winny is in trouble.” Celia seemed to be having trouble speaking and was casting urgent looks towards the door.

“In trouble? What trouble?” Alistair asked, trying to keep calm but feeling panicked himself. She took his hand, laced her fingers through his and began to pull him towards the door. He followed obligingly with only a weak protest of: “Where are you taking me?”

They were already pushing through the gate of the inn when Celia managed to pant: “Winny. In labour.”

Alistair cursed silently. What if this was a trap to lure him out into the woods? He cursed again, aloud this time but kept pace with Celia, running into the black of the night and towards the looming wall of trees that heralded the edge of the forest.

As they ran, Celia seemed oblivious to the uneven ground and the lashings of branches, swiping at exposed skin and grabbing at clothing. Alistair raised an arm to try and protect his face, realising now how she had cut her cheek. It was all he could do to focus on his feet and try to stay upright as he trailed behind a frantic Celia.

“Celia,” Alistair tried but she ignored him. A few paces more and he nearly sprained his ankle in a shallow animal burrow. “Celia!” He drew to an abrupt halt but kept hold of her hand and she jerked back towards him like a rag doll, stumbling over her own feet. He steadied her with his other hand on her waist and she peered up at him with wild, panicked eyes he could only just make out in the dim light. He could feel her in his arms, not straining against him but tense and brimming with anxious energy.  Neither of them wore cloaks and he couldn’t tell where his shivering started and hers ended. “I know this is urgent, but you have to tell me what is going on.” He was surprised at the steadiness of his own voice. Celia put up a hand to brace herself against his chest and he felt her relax, lean against him slightly.

 He knew how it could feel, to have exhaustion catch up with you when you had been running on adrenaline so long, and waited while she struggled to gather her thoughts.

* * *

 

Everything seemed a blur. Alistair was watching her expectantly. He wanted answers. Understandable. But he did not seem angry, or repulsed. As far as she could tell.

She could feel the warmth of his chest on the palm of her hand and her frozen fingers even through his clothing. The temptation to draw closer was almost irresistible, freezing as she was. He was looking down at her with concern, eyebrows drawn together.

“Winny has gone into labour,” she finally managed.

“Yes,” he said patiently. “I got that part.”

“We were foraging for juniper berries in the woods when it started. I did not realise how far we had walked. I tried to help her back but she can’t go any further. She just can’t.”

“Ok. And back there…the fire thing?”

“I am a mage,” she half wailed it without meaning to. “An apostate.”

Alistair took a deep breath. “I figured. Just wanted to…” he trailed off uncertainly.

“What?”

“Hear it from you I guess,” he said, sounding suddenly weary. They locked eyes and Celia tried to convey some sort of apology to Alistair. She wasn’t quite sure why but it felt necessary. His own expression was impossible to read; it was too dark and his eyes were shadowed.

“I can help Winny. She has been through a bad birth before and the child did not survive. But I-I can help her, I know how but Alistair, I can’t do it alone. She he has to be brought back to warmth, to the inn,” Celia explained rapidly.

“Okay, stay calm Celia. You know where she is? All these trees look the same to me.”

“Yes, hold on,” Celia concentrated for a moment, face wrinkling. “I left a trail, now you can see it too.” Alistair shuddered and grimaced as the wave of magic washed over him. The discomfort however, quickly gave way to admiration as a trail of hovering blue lights appeared, wending their way through the trunks.

“Incredible,” Alistair muttered, staring out at them, momentarily frozen in wide-eyed fascination. In his wonderment, he seemed to have forgotten he still held Celia trapped in his arms and after a few moments she reluctantly wriggled from his grip so they could set off. She considered taking his hand again. He saw her glance down at it and flexed his fingers. Suddenly self-conscious, she decided against it.  

Moans of pain indicated they were nearing Winny even before they saw her.

“Celia,” Winny wept, holding out her arms like a child and Celia rushed to her. Though Celia had wrapped her cloak around the other woman and made her a bed of conifer fronds to keep her from the cold ground before leaving to fetch help, the dwarf was still shivering violently. It was exactly the kind of external stress they should have been avoiding and from the sobbing and heaving, Celia knew the window she had to keep her friend calm was very nearly closed.

Alistair was with her in a moment and they both braced themselves to lift Winny to her feet.

“Alistair and I are going to help you stand. Then we are going to take you home. Is that okay?” Winny nodded, the usually talkative dwarf rendered silent by fear and pain. “One…two,” she counted for Alistair and Winny’s benefit, “and three.” Thanks largely to Alistair, they could easily support most of the smaller woman’s weight between them. “And now we are going to start walking. Winny you need to help us with this. Step…and step. Good, step, step and step,” Celia intonated as they made their slow progress.

About half way back the strength in Winny’s legs failed as a contraction hit and she crumpled to the ground, taking Celia and Alistair with her. Celia drew on her magic, felt for that strand of light at her core and bent it to her will, drawing it out along her arm and into her glowing fingertips. She touched the energy to Winny’s forehead, barely brushing her skin with her fingertips, but withdrew her hand quickly as she felt a shock of the woman’s pain and confusion. Then, just as gently, she lay the flat of her palm against Winny’s belly.

Alarm shot through her as she felt the lifeforce tucked there fluttering and trembling. Her eyes shot to Alistair who had been watching her face carefully and he had registered her distress, mirroring it in his own alarmed expression.

“I can carry her the rest of the way,” Alistair said quietly over Winny’s head. “You need to save you strength.” It was not a question.

“Thank you,” Celia whispered back. Alistair scooped Winny into his arms and began to stride along the path of blue light, Celia trailing along behind anxiously. Winny’s head lolled and when a contraction came she would grip Alistair so tightly Celia wondered that he didn’t object. But not a word of complaint or protest came from him, and he marched determinedly on until the trees began to thin and the welcoming light of the fire she had lit at the inn earlier shone like a beacon guiding them home through the inky black.

Pushing her own weariness to the back of her mind and rolling up her sleeves, Celia knew her work had only just begun.

Alistair took Winny upstairs and was settling her on her bed when Celia returned with her bag. They both looked pointedly at the empty grate of the fire. “If you get the wood, I can sort it,” Celia said.

“You really shouldn’t be wasting your energy. It could be a long night.”

“The room needs to warm up fast.”

Alistair held up his hands to indicate defeat then disappeared through the door to fetch the wood. Celia returned her focus to the woman on the bed.

“Winny,” she said softly, stroking the woman’s hair back from her sticky forehead. “You’re home now.”

“Where’s Red?” she asked feebly.

“He is coming, he might be a little while,” Celia lied, knowing her likely wouldn’t return that night. She could ask Alistair to go after him, but selfishly she wanted him with her. The thought of being left alone in this made her heart race with panic. “I am going to take care of you.”

“And the baby?”

“Take care of you both. Trust me: you are safe now.”

Celia closed her eyes and refocused her magic. Concentrating hard, she found the faint strands were uncharacteristically disparate and hard to weave and her brow creased in frustration. When the light and warmth finally tingled in her fingers, she reached out to Winny and the baby.

Apprehension and strain hit her hard as she made contact but she pushed through and did not let it break the link even as a sympathetic pain began to course through her body. A contraction hit Winny and Celia focused her energy on the woman’s tense, aching muscles, relaxing where she could and easing the pain as best was possible. Celia took on more and more of Winny’s pain, all the while a calming, soothing energy flowed through her hands into the tiny spark of life that was battling its way into the world.

Another contraction came and Celia was taken by surprise, reeling back with a hiss, the amplified pain shooting back up her arms and into her chest white hot like flame. She was panting, face slick with sweat and she wiped at her forehead with the back of a shaking hand. Alistair was there, she realised, and he had lit the fire. How long had she been at work? Not long enough to make the difference yet, not long enough to be certain of a safe delivery. She stood up, and pulled her jumper off over her head.

“Winny looks better, more peaceful,” Alistair said quietly.

“I feel better,” the woman on the bed murmured.

But Celia was not satisfied. She scrubbed at her face with her palms in agitation, trying to will herself to be more awake, to have more energy and more to give.

Suddenly Alistair was guiding her to the other side of the room, hand at the small of her back.

“You need to pace yourself. You didn’t sleep last night,” he whispered, voice too low for Winny to hear.

Celia let out a low moan and rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. How could she have forgotten? No wonder she was so exhausted and her magic already so spent. She felt a fool for not having rested while she could. “I almost forgot. Maisy Pastorn fell down an old mine shaft. They did not find the poor child for hours. She had a splinter of wood the size of an arrow through her side, sprained wrist, dislocated shoulder, broken ankle, concussion…amongst other things,” Celia explained for Alistair’s benefit.  

“She is alright now?”

“Yes, but it took so much…work,” Celia finished, her voice cracking.

“So that is all it was…” he said, sounding curiously relieved.

“What else?” Celia snapped. She was feeling fractious and angry at herself. She had promised to help Winny through this birth and see the infant safe into the world. Her vow could be meaningless, in the face of her fatigue and lack of mana.

Winny let out a low groan.

“This is not a conversation for right now,” Alistair said.

“No. I have to get this right, I must. Alistair,” she paused and fixed on his warm, toffee-coloured eyes for a moment. They seemed like the only things she could focus on in the room. “I am...” Celia did not know how to finish the sentence. Tired? Afraid? Going to fail my friend?

“How is it going so far?” he prompted.

“Not so bad, but not so good either.”

“What can I do?” Something about the practicality and sincerity of his question snapped her out of her own self-loathing long enough to start making plans.

Celia pondered for a moment, tapping her finger against her chin, pacing. She stopped and collected some dried herbs from her bag. “You need to make something like a tea from these. Wait until the water is simmering - not boiling! Take it from the heat and add them. Don’t let them boil! Drain the water into a cup, put the herbs in a bowl and bring me both. I need to make a poultice – or you can do that too, just grind them up with this powder,” she said, handing him a glass vial. “I need a stack of clean sheets like this,” she indicated a large pile with her hands, “from the linen closet is under the stairs. Get flannels too. And a dish of hot water. Actually, another shallow dish too, should she feel nauseated.  Or she may be hungry. Maybe some food, something plain and a jug of drinking water. Boil it and let it cool. And more candles, I need to see what I am doing. There are some in the pantry, on the left, top shelf.”

Alistair looked a little overwhelmed but nodded encouragingly as she relayed her list. “Okay. Right. Tea, no boiling. Poultice with powder. Sheets and flannels. Hot water dish, empty dish, food, drinking water and candles.” He sounded like a child resolutely reciting the Chant of Light for an audience.

“Yes, that is it.” He turned to leave and she caught at his sleeve.

“What is it? What else?” Immediately, he was attentive again. So ready to assist, so confident that her instructions had merit.

Unexpectedly, Celia felt humbled by his faith, and when she tried to speak, her voice caught in her throat. She coughed to clear it; she didn’t have the time to get emotional now. “I am just very grateful you are here,” she told him sincerely and released her grip on him, turning back to her work.

Magical energy surged within her and Celia felt her sense of composure renewed. Winny grew in alertness, became talkative and responsive. Alistair came and went, preparing and delivering the requested items, placing them within her reach without comment. He seemed to instinctively understand the need for undisturbed concentration and she poured her focus into maintaining a link with Winny and the baby.

When she was confident Winny was more stable, she carefully withdrew her tendrils of magic and turned to the herbal remedies. Alistair had followed her instructions and she cast the final steps over the brew of elfroot, sea salt, yarrow, calendula, peppermint and lavender. In the dish of hot water, she blanched embrium flowers and wet a cloth to wipe Winny’s face while encouraging her to inhale the steam. She assembled a separate poultice of ground oats, lady’s mantle, more elfroot and witch hazel. These were pre-emptive measures for bleeding, swelling and pain and Celia was trying to account for every likelihood, all the while calmly reassuring and guiding her friend. Nature, she knew, would largely take over but she was prepared to assist by whatever means were at her disposal.

Alistair, who had been hovering in the small living room that connected Red and Winny’s bedroom to the corridor popped his head in. “Is everything alright?” he asked, when he saw that Celia was not casting.

“Yes, now we wait.”

“You wait, you mean. _I_ am still kind of busy here,” Winny panted.

Celia couldn’t quite bite back a small laugh. She was so happy to see her friend’s usual spirit had returned in some measure, with the warmth of the fire and her pain somewhat alleviated. She sat with her, soothing where she could, testing her pain levels regularly, feeling it ricocheting through her own torso, tightening muscles in her back. Celia tried to take her own advice, even as she told Winny to breathe deeply.

After a time, Alistair caught Celia’s eye again and gestured her over to the door frame.  Since Winny had started roaring in earnest with contractions he seemed afraid to come any further into the room. “Perhaps I should ride out to find Red now? I suspect he would appreciate being told.”

Celia slapped her forehead. “Of course!” She rushed back to Winny and, with her help, eased a length of cord from around her neck. Celia showed Alistair the clear crystal securely wrapped in it. “I gave them each one of these, should trouble arise.” Concentrating for a moment, it began to glow red and emit a heat. “He should get the message.”

Alistair prodded the crystal gingerly with his index finger to test the warmth. “That…is very nifty.”

“We have been preparing for this for a long time but still…”

“Pandemonium!” Winny yelled helpfully.

Celia looked at the crystal ruefully before placing it down on a dresser and spoke quietly to Alistair. “I should have done that earlier. I knew he was too far off to help us in the woods, and I couldn’t convey our location…but I still should have done that sooner. It was an oversight.”

Alistair put a consoling hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You have had much to contend with.” He glanced at Winny again then lowered his voice so much that Celia had to stand on tiptoes and raise her head closer to him to hear, so close she could feel his warm breath against her ear. “Are you going to be alright? Mages…can burn out, do themselves harm. Or so I have heard. And I am no expert on labour but my understanding is the worst is yet to come.” He gave her a slightly aghast look and stepped back. “So to speak,” he clarified at normal volume.

Celia pondered for a moment, biting her lip. “I am just going to do the best I can and pray that this remains manageable.” For Winny’s benefit she added: “Perhaps Doctor Millen should be fetched?”

“No!” Winny exclaimed. “Not him, not again. Last time he – No Celia don’t let him near me please.” Celia hurried to kneel at the bedside and comfort her.

“I won’t. It will be just us if that is what you want,” she assured her in a soothing voice as Winny nodded and another contraction hit. Whatever the dwarf had been about to respond with was lost to a scream. Celia’s heart sank. This time sounded different: worse.

She delved into the inner well of magic once more, drawing on every last skerrick of strength she had to push back against the fear and hurt radiating from Winny. What she could not dispel, she tried to absorb, taking as much pain as she could bear while still maintaining the connection. She checked on the progress of the baby. Heartbeat still strong, willing and fighting, but still so far away. Too far away, Celia decided anxiously. It was not happening as it should, the head was in the wrong position. At least she was pretty sure. She had not the experience to know for certain but from what she had read…It all seemed suddenly so inadequate. How could she have ever thought she could do this?

There was a sob of despair. From her or Winny? She renewed her attentions, doubled her efforts. Massaged Winny’s stomach, tried to coax the baby to turn.

Minutes passed, or was it hours? Celia’s muscles were aching with fatigue and the burden of casting for so long uninterrupted. Her connection with the fade was slipping. Sharp throbbing had started behind her eyes then a pain like a dagger in her skull and blinding white light.

Someone behind her grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her away from the bed before she passed out. She fell against them, weak as a kitten as the room swam in and out of focus. Alistair? Her brain was woolly. Yes, he was kneeling too, holding her up. She struggled to support her own weight.

“Stop!” he yelled. Angry? Afraid? Celia could not tell. “You are killing yourself.” His tone was pleading.

The drain on her final dregs of magic alleviated, her tenuous grasp on the power of the fade wrenched away, Celia felt herself coming back to her senses. Winny was still crying out, weak, agonised mewling. Celia could barely keep her eyes open and just managed to mutter: “No choice,” hoping it conveyed everything she felt to Alistair. The love of her friend, the hope for the new life she carried, and the desolate, emptiness her own future held. What better cause to give her life to?

Alistair took her hand and placed something in it. A cold, glass vial. “Take this,” he told her, an apprehension swimming in his eyes that should could not account for.

Celia looked at her hand and let out a small gasp of surprise, before closing her fingers around it and clutching it as if it were a diamond. “Alistair,” she breathed. “Why do you have a lyrium potion?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have officially made it halfway! Thank you so much for your support and for sticking with it so far: I appreciate it more than I can say. :)


	7. Cracks

There was more than one way to catch an apostate.

Every situation and every mage called for a different approach. Along with his Templar abilities, Alistair had discovered that he had quite the knack for adapting his methods for what each situation called for. He even had to concede he enjoyed the more creative elements of apostate hunting, in some respects at least.

Some apostates were just out in the open, doing their thing, easy to spot and generally easy to take down. It was the ones that kept a low profile that proved a challenge more often than not, and half of that challenge comprised of drawing them out of their little hidey holes.

A favourite tactic involved pretending to be a lyrium smuggler, with black market wares to sell to the right buyers. He would find a way to get the word out, gently, deftly: anything too heavy handed would frighten them away. Making sure some actual lyrium potions were flashed or circulated was a solid bit of insurance and enough to convince most he was a legitimate seller. Then, drawn by the lure of magical goods, the apostate would come to him.

It was a perfect approach, and with a stash of lyrium potions borrowed (with interest) from Bunting’s thug sons he was all set, and quickly had a series of successful captures and kills under his belt.

It was just a shame that he had managed to drink his earnings away before he got a chance to pay Bunting’s boys back for their investment. Now all he had left was a single vial, a huge debt, and this job. Celia that is, the job.

The lyrium potion clearly wasn’t required to draw her out, given she had happily greeted him with a bowl of stew upon their first encounter. If only every apostate could be so considerate!

Thus the potion had lain useless, buried at the bottom of his bag until now. Presented with it, Celia had looked at him with abject bafflement even through her exhaustion. That sort of thing couldn’t be easy to come by around here; there wasn’t exactly a booming market.

“Just something I picked up,” he had explained unconvincingly. Fortunately, Celia had neither the time nor energy to question him further and drank it quickly. “Is it helping?” he had asked still kneeling beside her.

“Very much so,” she had replied. “Give me a moment.” Alistair’s nerves were wrecked but Celia seemed calm amongst the chaos. She took the opportunity to tie her hair up and Alistair hovered, worried she might collapse again but she seemed to be gaining strength by the minute. Her connection with the fade may be strengthened by the potion, but Alistair could only guess at her general fatigue. “Thank you,” she had told him eventually, her gaze steady. “I seem to be saying that a lot today.”

“You are welcome. It is the least I –” he had been interrupted by a particularly strangled moan from Winny. “I will be just…” he indicated the other room with his thumbs and Celia had nodded, still gazing levelly at him. He knew she was wondering about him and the origin of the potion, and the curiosity was making him self-conscious. In that moment, he became suddenly, irrationally concerned that she might be able read his mind. Even now, the memory of that poised, questioning look disconcerted him.

Alistair had slipped out the door as Celia turned back to her patient.

It had been a relief to go back into the living room and close the door on Winny’s cries, though Alistair felt a little guilty for so enjoying the escape. It felt a little like he was abandoning Celia. Still, he knew it would help no one to have him anxiously floating around in there and that was about all he was capable of at the moment. A glance out of the window showed no approaching rider and gave Alistair no indication of the time. It was dark yet, but he had completely lost track of how much of the night had passed. All he knew was that it had felt like an eternity.

He shuddered at the memory of watching Celia beading with sweat at Winny’s side, shaking with increasing violence, her skin turning ashen. He had raced to dig the potion out of his pack and when he had returned both women were screaming. Without thinking, he had lunged at Celia, falling to his knees at her to drag her away, to force her to shake off her connection with the fade. Overexertion was a real risk for mages: they could lose themselves, draw too deeply from the fade and fall prey to an opportunistic demon. That, or give too much of their own energy to spell until their strength dwindled so much that they had nothing left to sustain the beating of their own heart.

It had been clear that Celia was going to do anything she could to help Winny, even at her own expense and that frightened him. He could only hope the lyrium potion was enough to save them both.

Pacing without even realizing he was doing it, alternating between chewing the end of his thumb and twisting his ring, the hours dripped by like treacle and Alistair feared he might wear a track in the carpet.

Just when Alistair was thinking again that he should ride out for him, Red had appeared. Alistair barely saw him in a flash of ginger as he crossed the room and entered the bedroom before he was alone again.

It struck Alistair suddenly, that it had been quiet from the other room for a long time. His stomach twisted. He was quickly put out of his misery however, when Celia opened the door. He caught a glimpse of Winny and the baby (a swaddled, slightly terrifying, pink swollen and wrinkled affair), Red hovering nearby and heard a quiet mewling cry.

Celia slouched wearily past him and into a spare room without saying anything and he too retired not long after. By the time he woke, well into the afternoon the following day, Celia was gone.

“Home,” Red answered when Alistair enquired after her. Red was fixing a tray of food to take back upstairs and Alistair didn’t expect to see much of him over the next day.

“Should someone check in on her?”

“No. She will be alright, needs space and rest,” he answered firmly. Alistair couldn’t decide if Red did not know where she lived, or was simply unwilling to tell him.

Alistair resigned himself to figuring out how to make his own porridge and began tentatively stirring the oats and milk together while he pondered.

The urgency of the situation surrounding the birth meant that Alistair had barely had time to process what Celia had told him. Or shown him. There could be no doubt now that she was the apostate her had sought, if he was still laboring under the flimsy excuse that he needed ‘evidence’ before acting. Not that in reality, he had ever really needed convincing of that however. The issue was that she still hadn’t really done anything truly evil. Not even terribly bad or slightly unethical if he was honest. Except for escaping from the tower. And maybe she had her reasons?

So how could he face dragging her back to face ‘justice’? A conversation needed to be had; he would give her that chance.

Alistair jumped, when Celia suddenly burst through the kitchen door, pink cheeked and bright eyed with a basket of late season nuts she had managed to forage from who knew where.

“How are they?” she asked brightly as she unwound her scarf and dumped it on the bench with her cloak and basket.

“Quite well I think, though Red asked for you to go up as soon as you arrived.”

“Hmm,” Celia answered thoughtfully, then, peering over his shoulder at the cooking pot added: “That looks good.”

“There is enough to go around, should you fancy some. Apparently, oats double in size,” he said dryly.

She laughed and disappeared up the stairs calling: “Honey please!” over her shoulder.

Alistair was concerned about introducing another foreign element into his pot of gloop but fortunately the honey went in without explosions.

He had just arranged two bowls and spoons on a table when Celia returned looking altogether less cheerful than she had at her arrival.

“Everything okay?” he asked cautiously, taking a seat opposite her.

“Yes. Winny is just very weak. I will need to keep an eye on her. The baby is doing well.” She began to shovel porridge into her mouth with enthusiasm and Alistair wondered if she had not eaten since before the birth. Luckily, she was not gagging on it so hope remained for his cooking.

“Have they chosen a name?”

Celia hesitated, lowering her eyes. Her cheeks flushed suddenly red. “Cecil,” she finally answered.

“They named him after you!” Alistair responded with a delighted clap of his hands.

“It would seem so.” Celia still looked embarrassed. “They are giving me too much credit.”

“I don’t think so,” Alistair said simply, causing Celia’s cheeks to turn an even deeper shade of red.

“Actually, about that. What I did I mean. I wanted to explain…well a lot of things actually. But I should probably start –”

“With the whole magic thing,” Alistair supplied helpfully, wiggling his fingers.

Celia raised her eyebrows at him and shook her head. “Yes: ‘the whole magic thing’. A minor detail.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, as if considering where to begin. “Nobody expected me to be a mage, least of all me. No family history. And nobody would have expected me to become an apostate either, I dare say.”

“A model pupil then? What happened?”

Chewing her bottom lip, she stirred the dregs of her breakfast. “A friend came to me, just after I had passed my Harrowing. That is a kind of test for apprentices, to become full members of the Circle,” she explained.

 “Oh,” said Alistair, trying to sound enlightened.

“My friend had not been approached for a Harrowing yet and it was his fear that he would be made Tranquil – that is, cut off from the fade and all emotions. Sorry, this must all be a bit new to you,” she shook her head and gave him a weak smile.

Alistair cleared his throat awkwardly. None of this was new to him but he could hardly tell her that. “I am keeping up. Just.”

“My friend indicated that he had reason to believe…or implied he had proof that plans were in place to make him Tranquil. Soon. This distressed him, obviously, but not least because he was…courting a young Chantry initiate in the Circle.”

“Ah, I imagine that was frowned upon.”

“Very much so and I was persuaded to assist them in their plans to escape.”

Alistair gave her a smug grin. “Bit of a romantic are you?”

“I could see that they were trapped, and he seemed so desperate. I cannot really justify my actions but my recent initiation into the Circle meant that I was able to provide help to them and well, I found myself going along with it. I was certainly sympathetic.”

Celia seemed lost in a trail of thought. “None of this explains how _you_ became an apostate,” Alistair prompted.

“After the Harrowing, my phylactery should have been taken for storage in Denerim. I had assumed this was the case. However, it seems there had been a clerical error which meant it yet remained in the tower, something I discovered while helping my friend. I…destroyed it. It was spur of the moment…”

“A rush of blood to the head?”

“I cannot pretend the thought of leaving the Circle was entirely unappealing to me. The only reason I had not considered it before then was because I I thought it impossible.”

“You were unhappy then, at the Tower.”

“No! But yes. I had not always been.” Alistair saw Celia visibly shudder. “A new templar arrived.”

Alistair clenched his jaw feeling exposed, as if the word ‘templar’ was branded across his forehead. “Bad news I expect?”

“The templars were…okay. Intimidating at worst. Usually. But one of the new arrivals was very different. I did not like his…” she seemed to be struggling to find the words. “Sometimes I can get a sense of people and their motives. Nothing solid or specific, just general friendliness or ill-will, that sort of thing.  A first impression.”

“Really?” Alistair was shocked. Had she known why he was here all along? Surely if she had such an ability then ‘I want to take you captive and ruin your life’ would show up pretty strongly.  “Did you get a sense of anything off me?”

“Good intentions,” she replied without hesitation. “That is why I was so grateful to you when we first met.” Alistair found himself smiling back at her but was perplexed as to why his ulterior purpose had not shone through. He was not that good of a liar, surely.

“So this templar was a bad guy?”

Celia stared down at her hands in her lap. “He liked to exploit weakness and…I was weak. An easy target.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem weak to me.” Celia let out a tired sigh. It was obvious that she was not enjoying reflecting on this and Alistair felt sympathetic as she took a moment to choose her next words carefully.

“Things were different then. I lacked confidence. I had no one to report my concerns to, vague and paranoid as they must have seemed. At times, I doubted them myself…I tried to avoid him, but that only made a sport of it for him. He would swap shifts with other Templars to be where I would be, even working extra hours. Even with a helmet, I always knew it was him because he would not look about the room, or stare at the wall like the others. He was always focused on me. In groups it was bad enough, but I became afraid to be alone, even for a few minutes, so determined he was to catch me out.”

“Could someone in charge separate you? Even as a precaution?”

“I did try to talk to the First Enchanter, and even to the Knight Commander. Their responses amounted to: ‘it is a difficult time and we must be seen to be keeping the peace on our end’ and ‘innocent until proven guilty’. Both were unwilling to act unless…something happened.”

Alistair swallowed. “Did it?”

“No,” Celia answered firmly. “I escaped before it did. That is why I panicked, that is why I grabbed the opportunity when it was before me. I…to you it must sound like I was paranoid and overreacting.” She looked across at him, cautiously, waiting to assess his reaction.

“Not at all. I believe you were right to trust your instincts,” Alistair answered honestly. Her story rang true; there had been those amongst the ranks of templars-in-training that had seemed a bit too keen to exert the power of the rank over mages. Tales of unsavoury exploitations and abuses filtered back in hushed whispers. Alistair was confident that if Celia had caught the eye of the wrong type of Templar, she was right to be afraid.

“That is not the end of the story.”

“I was going to ask how you actually got out. Minor detail. I assume it wasn’t as easy as waltzing out the front door wearing a fake moustache and an overcoat?”

Celia let out a weak laugh. “What genius. If only you had been there, you could have saved me so much trouble. As it was my friend had told me nothing of his plan beyond my required involvement to access the phylactery chamber. I thought that was for the best, to be kept in the dark. However when my phylactery was destroyed too I was suddenly in over my head. As we left the chamber we were confronted by the Head Enchanter and templars. Everything happened so quickly, I was terrified but my friend he…I was so wrong about him.”

“This does not bode well.”

“He was a maleficar. He felled the entire group with a single spell: blood magic. They were not killed! Stunned. But it bought time. Minutes, or perhaps only seconds. I was in shock. My friend’s lover rejected him immediately, fled across the room.  I was horrified too but frozen in place…and he took my wrist and cast another spell and the next thing I knew we were outside of the tower, I am not sure where exactly. Not far I think: his powers could not have been that advanced. I started running, left my friend…the man I had thought of as a friend. He called after me but I just ran and ran. I never really stopped running. It crossed my mind I could go back to the tower, try to explain what happened but there is no retelling of the story that would not have ended in me becoming a Tranquil. Perhaps it was cowardly. Perhaps it still is.”

“You certainly seem to have your reasons.” They were both quiet, thoughtful for a moment. Alistair was considering how Duncan had rescued him from a fate he had thought unavoidable and the gratitude he had felt at escaping it; remembering how he had leapt at the opportunity. How could he resent Celia for seizing an opportunity of her own, especially to escape such certain misery? At length, he spoke again: “So now you go from town to town putting out an A-Frame saying ‘Healer for coin - inquire within’?”

“Not exactly, no,” Celia laughed. “Usually I do not intend to reveal…what I am, I take on normal work like this,” she gestured around the room. “But sooner or later something always comes up: injury, illness or ailment, and I cannot seem to help but get involved.”

“That is…incredibly risky.”

“Perhaps, but after what happened, letting a blood mage on the loose and causing such havoc, I feel obligated to do what good I can. I could never stand by and watch suffering when I have the power to alleviate it.”

“That is quite the tale of woe,” Alistair finally said, leaning back in his chair. She was being honest, he was absolutely certain of it. Everything he had witnessed reinforced her story. More than that: he _knew_ her, knew it must be true  He had been right about her from the first moment he saw her. She was no danger, no apostate menace. So the question remained, chasing its tail around his head: why did someone want her brought in so badly? For that much coin? Something was still missing.

Crackling wood filled the silence between them as they both stared into the fire processing. Alistair wondered if she regretted telling him her story, and how much more she would regret it if she knew why he had ever even come to this place. Pale flames licked up the blackened husk of a log.

“What about you?” Celia asked.

“Me?”

“Your tale of woe?”

“Who said I have a tale of woe?”

“That faraway, troubled look you get sometimes.”

“That? Oh that! That look generally just means I am hungry. Hungry Alistair is woeful indeed.”

Celia let out an exaggerated gasp of faux outrage and placed a hand over her heart. “You cannot seriously think that it is fair that I just poured my heart out and entrusted you with my most dangerous secret and I still know next to nothing about you?”

“Perhaps you overestimate my innate sense of justice,” Alistair answered dryly.

“Does it not get tiring, keeping so much bottled up and hidden. You are much more than you make out.” She gave him a shrewd, narrow look, elbow on the table, chin propped on her hand. “Obviously you have a story to tell.”

“Obvious, is it? What is this? You show me yours and I show you mine? Did I sign a contract I am unaware of?”

“Come on Alistair. There is far too much potential in you for you to be seeking a professional career in apple picking and a quiet village life.”

“Is that so? You seem to be laboring under some rather favourable misconceptions about me.”

“You are telling me nothing to convince me otherwise.”

“Are you asking me to prove to you that I am a terrible, useless waste of space who could never aspire to any aspiration greater than navigating an apple from a tree into a crate over and over again? Because I will.”

“I shall be the judge of that.”

“Alright then,” Alistair said, changing tack, “How about this: have you ever considered the possibility that my life story might just be incredibly, intolerably dull and I am simply – nay, _nobly_ sparing you from being bored out of your mind?”

“No. Not for a moment.”

“Fine! I will throw you a bone. Damned, persistent woman.” Celia looked pleased with herself and swung one leg over the other to get comfortable before smoothing her skirt out.

“I grew up in Redcliffe.” Alistair began and Celia watched him, eyes wide with earnest, discomforting fascination. He faltered under her scrutiny. “I was friends with a marvelous chicken I called Lord Herbert Scratchly Beakington the Third. Oh the adventures we shared, my feathered companion and I. One Summer, I spoke only in clucks –”

“Properly please Alistair!” Celia reprimanded, trying to sound cross but laughing despite herself, especially as Alistair began to cluck demonstratively.

“You really aren’t going to give up, are you?” he asked.

“I realise I cannot force you. Though, something tells me you might be overdue for an opportunity to talk to someone,” she said seriously.

Alistair let out a long sigh. “I did grow up in Redcliffe.”  

“Is this until the new woman came along, and you were relegated to the barn?”

“There you go again, listening to me! Yes, that was where I sampled the luxury of barn life. Temporarily. It really wasn’t for very long and was fine actually, because I was working the stable anyway so it was already…familiar. Then I had to leave.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten, or thereabouts.”

“That is awful! The man who was meant to be caring for you just booted you out on the whim of his wife?”

“No, no, no! It wasn’t like that. Or maybe it was but he had always been good to me, when he did not need to be. I respected him, and his decision. Maybe not at first, but eventually. And leaving was the best option: his wife ensured the castle was no longer a home for me.”

“Castle?” Celia asked quickly.

Alistair could have banged his head against the table. She had him at ease to the point of carelessness. “Every man’s home is his castle. I did not mean it literally. Of course.”

“Well it must have been big, if you worked in stables and the man who raised you could afford to take on orphan boys,” Celia countered suspiciously.  

An urgent distraction was required and getting up and abruptly dancing the Remigold seemed too obvious. Alistair tried to change the subject instead. “After Redcliffe, I was sent to a chantry.”

“Oh? You don’t exactly seem the religious type.”

“Well, I did not take to every aspect of chantry life like a duck to water. More like a giant spider to water sometimes, sinking rapidly and flailing.”

“I can imagine. What did you do at the chantry? Were you there for a long time?”

‘Training to be a templar’ seemed solidly like the wrong thing to say at that moment. “Chores and…farm work in the local area. You know, they tried to keep me busy, mostly for their own sanity,” he replied vaguely. Celia seemed thoughtful, but unperturbed. Alistair was beginning to hate lying to her as much as he hated how easily she believed him.

“So how did you become,” she gestured loosely at him, “this.”

“Dashing and handsome?”

Celia rolled her eyes but smiled. “Obviously. And knowing which end of a sword is pointy.”

Alistair hesitated. Could he say it? This was surely a terrible idea. But it was going to happen. Eventually. Inevitably it seemed. Suddenly he actually wanted to tell her. “I was recruited as a Grey Warden.”

Frozen momentarily, her mouth slightly open, Celia looked genuinely taken aback. “You are a Grey Warden?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Why then…But what…The Blight?” she finally managed, not seeming to realise she hadn’t actually managed to fully form a question. Nonetheless, Alistair knew exactly what she wanted to know.

“The illustrious Hero of Fereldan and I worked together for a time but ultimately did not see eye-to-eye. Killing darkspawn we agreed upon, but everything in between was…contentious. Ultimately, he made a decision that I could not abide. It disrespected the memory of friends I had lost and the Grey Wardens as a whole. Or so I felt.”

How could he have ever worked side-by-side with Loghain? It was an impossible notion. Alistair knew that the Joining was meant to represent a clean slate but nothing could wipe the stains from that man’s record. Nothing.

“I have never heard much of the narrative beyond the slaying of the Archdemon.”

“A lot happened before that point,” Alistair said bitterly.

“If you disagreed with his actions so firmly, then surely you were right to leave his company,” Celia said. Alistair appreciated that it was a statement, not a question. Still, he buried his face in his hands.

“It is not so simple,” he muttered between his fingers. “The whole point of the Grey Wardens is that they are supposed to make the difficult choices, do what no one else can: ‘victory at any cost’. The record already shows that he and Lo- the other Warden’s present held more steadfastly to their oath than I did.” Alistair removed his hands, staring down at them clenched in his lap. “But he knew what he was doing,” he said, more to himself than to Celia. “He knew it would be him or me.”

And he had chosen Loghain with barely a moment of pause. Alistair’s contributions to the party would clearly not be missed.

“Alistair,” Celia said consolingly. “You did what you thought was right. You cannot berate yourself for that.”

“I tried to honour the memory of my fallen friends, by abandoning the cause they had died for in the first place? That is some shaky moral high ground to be perched upon. But I still…I just could not have acted differently. I know that about myself, for better or for worse.”

“If you know you could not have acted differently, why do you still sound like you regret it?” Celia asked, her voice soft like she was afraid of startling him.

“I do regret…the way things happened. A lot of people were hurt and it keeps me awake sometimes the feeling that things could have – or should have gone differently. That different choices could have -” The rest of the sentence died on his lips as he met Celia’s eyes again and felt rattled by the sympathy etched on her face. She felt sorry for him. After what he had come here to do to her. Shame coursed through him and he turned his face away from her compassionate gaze, heat rising up his neck.

“I understand that hard choices had to be made, but what is the true merit of a victory when the pursuit of it has wrought its own suffering and sadness? Every effort should be made, in any circumstance, to do the right thing. Red said you helped fleeing refugees, farmsteads. Do not discount or underestimate the difference you made to their lives.”

“I will try to keep that in mind” Alistair managed to say, though he still could not bring himself to look at her. Celia stood and gathered their empty bowls, heading back towards the kitchen. She paused at the doorframe.

“Alistair?”

“Yes?”

“The Grey Wardens do not train their recruits, do they?”

“No, they seek out individuals who are already skilled and combat ready, on some level at least. Especially in the time of a Blight: there is no time for training.”

“But you worked in a stable, then on farms for the chantry. I still do not understand where you learned to fight.” Her tone was curious, but not accusatory.

Alistair’s spine went stiff. He could not read Celia’s expression from this distance but she waited, patiently, bowls stacked, spoons in hand as he groped for an answer: another lie. Nothing came to him. “I picked up…a few –”

“Make way for my heir!”  Red was descending the stairs, shepherding Winny who was proudly clutching tiny Cecil wrapped securely in a blanket. Celia abandoned the bowls on the bar and rushed to them, making delighted squeaking and cooing noises.

Alistair got up and made his way over more hesitantly. He had rather a few too many close calls recently. The Maker was either watching out for him or having a good chuckle at his expense.


	8. Intrusion

Having been already punched into submission, the bread dough was being kneaded without particular enthusiasm, as the owner of the kneading hands stared distractedly into space, watching dust motes catch silver in the cold, blue morning light.

Celia was trying to shake the image of an hourglass, top nearly spent of sand, from her mind. It had been at the forefront of her thoughts since the day of Cecil’s birth.

It was time for her to leave this place. In many ways, she should already be gone. Winny and the baby were well. Cecil in fact, was thriving, putting on weight as the days passed and observing the world with his tiny eyes, exuding the calm wisdom beyond his years that only newborns possessed. Winny was still weak and tired as was to be expected, though uncontainably happy. Though Celia had no immediate reason to be fearful over Winny’s health at this point, she took comfort in being present to monitor her gradual recovery nonetheless. The yet fragile state of her friend was the reason Celia was lingering in the village. Even when she knew she should not. Even when she knew it was not safe.

She was shaken from her reverie as Alistair entered through the kitchen door with a gust of chilly air and beamed at her, snow flecks in his hair, nose pink from the cold.

Here was another of the reasons she was lingering, though she could barely admit it to herself.

“Hello,” he breathed, sounding a little flustered, closing the door carefully behind him.

“Why hello. You must not have gotten very far this morning.” He was supposed to be at work by now.

“No, I turned back actually. I ah, rather hoped you would be in already.”

She gave her bread dough a little slap. “Figured I would start early. This is not going to knead itself.”

“No,” he replied, barely seeming to process what she had said. He came cautiously closer, like a dog that had been reprimanded for begging but still hoped for a scrap. All he was missing was an optimistic wag of a tail. Joining her at the bench, Celia realised he was holding something. “Do you know what this is?” Suddenly, from the careful cage of his fingers, he held out a rose. It was barely open, with deep crimson petals crowned by tiny crystals of ice.

“An oddly coloured artichoke?” Celia answered as glibly as she could manage, suddenly feeling a little nervous.

“I was trying to trick you into thinking it was a rose but you saw straight through me, ha! I just about had you though, didn’t I?”

The tension was slightly alleviated but Celia still felt wary and returned with fixed-determination to her kneading. “Where did you find that at this time of year?” she asked as impassively as possible.

“It was tucked in one of the hedgerows, I just saw a glimpse of colour in amongst the brambles. Maybe I should have left it but I couldn’t help wondering at it surviving there when nothing else had; something so beautiful hidden in a landscape so desolate.” He suddenly seemed altogether too close and Celia bit her tongue to stop herself from snapping at him to move back.

“That is a nice sentiment. I had no idea you were a man capable of such poetry,” Celia said, her tone light and teasing, all the while turning and stretching the dough before her with growing desperation.  

“I thought I might…give it to you actually. It reminded me of you, in many ways.”

Celia kneaded with increasing ferocity and refused to look up. “I don’t really know what to say.” Actually, with her heart beginning to pound, Celia knew exactly what she wanted to say, but the old walls kept her wary. Walls that she knew she had built for a reason.

“It has been a long time since anyone has listened to me complain and rant, let alone encouraged me to. I appreciate it, especially when you have not exactly had a good time of it yourself.” Alistair’s joviality had waned and he was beginning to sound more hesitant. Celia wondered if he had sensed her guardedness.

“Well, misery loves company. Or so they say.”

“You have been so kind to a perfect stranger and I just…wanted to tell you how rare and…how rare it is to meet someone like you.” Celia sensed words unspoken but she could not guess at what they were.

She shaped the dough, turning it deftly and neatly tucking the edges until it formed a round. “Rare? Someone like me? Someone who knows how to starch linens, stir a pot and fill a tankard? You are easy to please. As always.” With the loaf formed and ready for another rise Celia was suddenly taskless. She felt slightly at a loss as she sensed Alistair watching her with scrutiny. Driven by a defensive need to keep busy, her eyes set on a bunch of carrots across the bench that needed chopping for the stew pot.

“I guess it was just a stupid impulse,” Alistair said. Celia turned towards him, looking for her knife. Alistair was even closer than she realised and as she put her hand out towards him, groping for the knife he put the flower into her grasp, his fingers brushing hers.

“I was not –”

Celia’s breath hitched when she saw Alistair’s expression. She quickly quashed the instinct to correct him and instead she clutched the rose awkwardly in her floury hands. Alistair looked jubilant, not to mention relieved. His whole posture seemed to straighten like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Celia would no sooner kick a puppy than tell him she had not intended to take the flower in that moment. Her stomach was fluttering. She knew she should say something else. He certainly looked as if he was waiting for a response. While focused fixatedly on a spot on the wall somewhere to one side of him, she managed to let out a slightly strangled: “I must…carrots.”

“Ah, duty calls. I understand. I shall disrupt you no further.” And with that, he left, swaggering triumphantly back out into the bitter winter morning like a man who had a won a particularly risky wager.

Celia placed the rose on the bench and looked at it nervously as if it might leap up at her suddenly. She chewed the edge of her thumb, then reached out tentatively to touch a velvety petal. Looking about the room self-consciously, she walked to her bag where a book Custer had lent to her was stored. Using a tea towel, she carefully dabbed the drops of moisture from the petals and leaves where ice had once clung, and pressed the flower between the pages of the book before returning it to her bag.

The flower out of sight, but not out of mind, Celia spent the rest of the morning distracted and unsettled by emotions she could not pin down and name. They escaped from her grasp like water and disappeared when she tried to critically asses them, fading and elusive as a wisp of smoke.

 Preoccupied, the bread entered the oven over proofed and unscored but it was no matter as ultimately, Celia, usually so attentive and careful, accidentally let it burn.  

“I thought you were baking bread this morning?” Winny asked, checking out the tray of breakfast Celia had just deposited at her bedside.

“Look who is getting all high and mighty!” Celia scoffed as she opened the drapes. She stooped into a low curtsey. “I apologise Lady Winifred, no bread this morning. I made you some drop scones I do hope that will suffice. Have mercy on your humble servant.”

“Get up!” Winny laughed. “No please don’t do that it makes me feel ridiculous.”

“Her ladyship is so magnanimous,” Celia simpered before breaking character to laugh too. “There was bread. There still is. If you like it toasted. Really toasted.”

“Ah. Nothing salvageable? That is not like you Celia.”

“Trust me: no amount of rosehip jam would disguise the char on that poor loaf. I have been distracted this morning,”

“By what?”

Celia sighed. “Peculiar behaviour. From Alistair.”

“Ahh,” Winny replied pensively, but prompted her no more letting Celia continue in her own time.

“I fear that he…I am concerned that he has the wrong impression. That is, I worry I may have led him on to believe…”

“To believe that you two get on like a house on fire? You cannot help that, there is no deception in enjoying each other’s company.”

“But I do not want him to think I…have anything to offer. I believe he has been let down by a great number of people in his life already. I would hate to be one of that number.”

“So have you, Celia. And Alistair is not as much of a fool as he likes to make out. He knows your…situation now.”

“Yes, so why would he – I am sorry, it is not worth discussing.”

“Did something happen?”

 “Not a thing. And nothing will.” Celia smiled at her reassuringly and sought to change the subject. “Young master Cecil. Good morning.” Celia carefully carried the baby from his crib to his mother’s arms where he was happily received. “You all slept well?”

“Yes, he is still tuckered out poor lad so we all have our peace. I know it will not last!” Cecil was feeding with eager noisiness and both women chuckled.

“I am glad only one of us managed to mess up breakfast today. You have a happy customer at least.”

“What did happen? You are not too tired are you? Red went into town for supplies and took the cart so you should not need to get groceries for a few days. I worry you are overworked, you did not have much time to recover yourself after this fellow’s grand entrance into the world.”

“You know I like to keep busy. And I do love helping out here though…” Celia trailed off reluctantly.

“Celia, maybe it is time for you to move on. I feel I have been selfish, keeping you with us for so long,” Winny helpfully filled in, guessing the end of her sentiment.

“I know, but I find myself reluctant. Even more reluctant now.”

“He is certainly a charming young man, I can understand you being enraptured with him. The heart wants what the hearts wants afterall,” Winny said solemnly.

Celia flushed as crimson red as Alistair’s rose. “I am not –”

“Cecil, I mean,” Winny interrupted quickly with a sly grin. Celia gave her a stern look but couldn’t help but smile as the baby made a mewling sound and reached out of the blankets with a single hand, small fingers grasping for purchase.

“You must be feeling better. You have lost none of your old cheek.”

“I am feeling better than I imagined possible, thanks to you.”

“I hardly did anything: you had all the work load.”

“We both know that is not true. I hate to imagine…if you had not been here.” Celia put a hand on Winny’s knee.

“It does not bear thinking about.” Celia stretched her arms over her head with a long exhale and her back cricked. “You are right though. I need to move on. Very soon.”

There was a pause before Winny spoke again. “Can you make sure Alistair gets that if Cecil lets me fall asleep early this evening? I finished it last night,” Winny said, gesturing to a rocking chair in the corner of the room.

“The jumper!” Celia replied pleased. “He will need it in this weather.” She picked it up, examining it and running a hand over the careful ropes of patterned cabling. “Warden blue,” she said quietly to herself.

“What?” Winny asked.

“Nothing,” Celia replied quickly, replacing the garment. Cecil had finished feeding and Winny was trying to burp him. “Here I will do that; you should eat.”

Winny watched as Celia took the baby up and started gently rubbing his back with a few encouraging coos. “There we are, that must feel better. Good boy,” she said softly. Much to Celia’s horror, a few short moments later Winny began to cry. “What? What is it!?” Celia exclaimed with no small amount of panic.

“I know you must go but it just feels so normal having you here now. And you cannot write, or ever come back to visit? Truly? It is so cruel. How will we ever know that you are safe and well. I will have to fear for you from the moment you leave our sight and forevermore and Cecil will never truly know his namesake.”

“Winny,” Celia shushed, trying to comfort both her friend and the now distressed infant. “I will be safe, and I will be well. You know me: I can take care of myself. And I trust you to give Cecil a mostly accurate image of me.”

“You know, I will only exaggerate some things. Just a little, only for dramatic effect,” Winny sniffed.

“I would expect nothing less. I will miss this place, all of you. It has not felt like this, this hard, not since I left home as a child. Winny, thank you –”

“Do not start. Just, no. You are family now and one of the perks is presumptuous ingratitude,” she answered firmly.

Celia felt tears welling in her own eyes. “That goes both ways then.” They shared a long look of mutual grief. “I should speak to Custer today. He is the only other person I need to tell. I cannot bear the thought of leaving without saying goodbye to him.”

“Today?” Winny said faintly.

Celia opened her mouth to speak but hesitated as the sound of a horse entering the courtyard reached them. “Red?” she asked.

“Perhaps, or a guest. This early?”

“I will check.” Celia took up Alistair’s jumper and made her way down the stairs, tucking it in her bag for safe keeping. She was hoping to produce it with a flourish when Alistair arrived back for maximum impact. She hoped he would like it; Winny’s knitting was beautiful and meticulous and Celia could not help but wonder how long it had been since someone had last given Alistair a gift.

Celia remembered she was supposed to be seeking out the source of the noise they had heard from downstairs. The man was slightly turned away when Celia entered the bar and she caught a glimpse of his profile and narrowed eyes as he looked about the room. Her well-rehearsed welcome caught in her throat and she took a few steps backwards into the shadows. Hiding behind the doorframe with her back against the wall, Celia tried to catch her breath. Her spine was rigid and had she hackles, they would have been raised.

Spite. Irritation. Conceit and even more alarming, simmering fury, rolling off this man in waves. It was strong, unmistakable. Celia had not had a reading this strong for a long time and she felt herself beginning to tremble. Backing further away, she put a hand over her mouth to muffle her own shaky breaths.  

* * *

 

When Alistair arrived in the kitchen that night Red beckoned him over to where he stood with a serious expression. Had he been waiting for him?

“New guest has booked a room,” Red started, face blank and unsmiling.

“Okay, good…” Alistair could sense that something more was going on. Red seemed almost angry.

“Celia got a bad read off him, you know, her _thing_ ,” he said with emphasis. “She is refusing to go anywhere near him. More shaken up by a first impression than I have ever seen her. And he does seem like a real shifty sort of character. I don’t like him either, wouldn’t trust him as far as I can spit.”

“Do you want me to ask him to leave?” Alistair was confused. The burly Red was more than capable of dealing with anyone untoward himself.

“See, I would have refused him a room, asked him to go. That was my first instinct, to get him out of here, away from my family.” Red _was_ angry, Alistair decided. His stance was defensive, arms folded across his broad chest. “Only he is asking after you. By name. So I figured he was a friend of yours.”

Alistair went cold and knew he had failed dismally to keep the shock from his face. By the time he entered the bar however, he was able to study Edleth with impassive disinterest.

“Ah, here you are. I arrived some time ago but am to understand that you were at ‘work’?” Edleth scoffed.

“Why are you here?” Alistair asked with barely concealed disgust as he loomed over the seated man.

“Checking in. We have been…worried about you. About our investment.”

“Not here.” Alistair grabbed him by the collar and wrenched him upright, the chair falling back onto the flagstones with a clatter. Edleth swatted his hands away.

“Touch me again you dog-brained oaf…”

“Not here,” Alistair repeated, voice low and threatening.

As they left the inn, Alistair glanced up. Framed in one of the top windows were the unmistakable silhouettes of Winny and Celia, watching the men leave. Alistair did not let Edleth speak until they were a considerable distance away. All Alistair could think about was putting as much distance between this serpent and Celia as possible.

“All this precaution! What are you afraid of Alistair?” Edleth mocked.

“I have the situation in hand, the last thing I need is you blundering in there and destroying everything.”

“In hand? Is that what you call playing house with these people?”

“How many apostates have you brought down Edleth? I suppose I should not expect you to know a stratagem when you see one. Now, I know that is a big word –”

“Oh we have had reports of just how ‘friendly’ you have been getting with the apostate Alistair: you have been observed. And though I had not the pleasure of meeting her myself, I understand she has a very pretty manner and a prettier face. It does not take a genius to put two and two together.”

“Reports?” Alistair’s brow furrowed. So he had been right: someone was watching him, keeping tabs.

“If you have not managed to work it out for yourself yet…” Edleth mocked.

“Millen. It figures.”

“He is a good, Maker-fearing Fereldan citizen, very interested in protecting his community and has been most forthcoming with information and updates. Unlike you I might add. My employer is very, very concerned for you. Thinks you might have been bewitched, or perhaps just finally descended so far into the drink you cannot surface again.”

“Concerned? I’ll bet,” Alistair retorted with a snort of sarcasm. “Tell him I have it under control.”

“Why yes, Alistair, he is very concerned for you, despite your scepticism,” Edleth said with exaggerated sincerity. “Arl Eamon has always had your welfare at the front of his mind.”

“Arl Eamon!?” Alistair spluttered, yelling despite himself. “No, I cannot believe…The Arl is your employer? My employer?”

“It started out as a good way to make sure you were earning a wage and putting your talents to use. It kept you busy at the very least. He seems inordinately fond of you, so invested in your wellbeing. And he tried so hard to help you but I don’t think any of us could have predicted what a dismal failure you would continue to be…” Alistair was still gobsmacked and could not respond. He put his face in his hands, then ran them through his hair. “This was the primary goal though, it is true. We knew eventually we would find _her_.”

“Ce– the Arl is looking for this apostate? Specifically? Why? Why that amount of coin? Why bring her in alive?” The questions spilled out unhindered. Alistair was too shocked, too confused to be guarded.

“Revenge, primarily. Leverage, secondarily. Political leverage in being responsible for bringing her forth to be judged. Revenge, as she is the reason Connor is dead, after all.”

Alistair laughed in exasperation. “You’re wrong. I met the mage who was responsible for Connor’s possession. Jowan is already dead.” Very dead. The Warden had ensured that, as was his typical manner of dealing with perceived deviance.

“And who helped mastermind his escape from the Tower I wonder? Who was responsible for setting him loose on Redcliffe, and for all the havoc and pain he caused? You think it was all an accident?”

Alistair shook his head in horrified disbelief. They had it all wrong. Eamon had it wrong. “No…that is not what happened. Not how it happened.”

“So she has been bewitching you has she? What twisted version did she spin? What sob story did she feed you and how eager were you to believe it? Did she say that she is a victim in all of this? That she did not know her close friend just happened to be a blood mage? Are you such a fool?” Edleth mocked, spitting out questions with practiced rapidity. He had obviously been rehearsing for this encounter.

“I need to think on this…This is all…Give me more time, Edleth be reasonable,” Alistair pleaded, hating himself as he did it but desperate enough to try even begging.

“There is no time Alistair, you have used up all your chances, even in the favourable eyes of the Arl.”

“What do you mean? Edleth, what are you talking about!?” Fear began bubbling in Alistair’s gut.

“No need to get excited, it is out of your hands now. Do not trouble that miniscule brain of yours any further.”

“What have you done?” Alistair asked again, his voice now icy calm.

“An open bounty has already been advertised, with her likeness and exact location. It will not be long now, till she is strung up and dragged back to face her crimes. Only the Arl is impatient, and she has proved more trouble than she is worth. ‘Capture or kill’, I believe the poster advised.”

Finally, Alistair had the opportunity to do something he had wanted to do for a very, very long time and punching Edleth square in the face was even more satisfying than he had long imagined.

* * *

 

Celia and Winny sat safely upstairs. Celia still felt unsettled, though if the man knew Alistair perhaps there was a reasonable explanation for what she had picked up from him. Knowing that she had to move on was probably making her paranoid, she reasoned.

Already on edge, both women jumped when Alistair burst into the room looking frenzied. He ran straight to Celia and all but picked her up out of her chair. She staggered, unsteady on her feet as he pulled her towards the door.

“What are you doing!?” Winny yelled, alarmed. Cecil began to cry.

Alistair ignored her but halted, and spoke directly to Celia: “You have to leave. Right now.”

“Leave?” Celia was distressed by the wild fear in his eyes and something else. She struggled to interpret it. Remorse? No: guilt.

“Away from here, the village. You must go immediately. Mage hunters are coming after you. Now!” He began to drag her towards the door once more. Winny let out a shriek of terror and Cecil began to bawl in earnest at the raised voices.

“Why – How do you know?” Celia asked

Alistair let out a strange, animal-like noise, a cross between a laugh and a sob. “Because I’m one of them.”

 


	9. Shatter

_Run._

It was the only thought left in Celia’s head. Helpfully it overpowered the rather more pertinent question she knew deep down she should be asking.

They fled into the night without a chance to properly say goodbye to Winny, nor Red who must have heard them charging down the stairs and through the kitchen. Celia had slowed them long enough to grab her bag and cloak but an agitated Alistair was soon hurrying her along again. The still rational part of her brain knew that she might need the supplies in her bag on the road, but more importantly, it crossed her mind that the contents of it could be incriminating for Red and Winny.

 Alistair paused at the door, looked intently out into the blackness, then began to run again. Celia felt she was flapping along behind him like a scarf. Her mind had gone blank beyond then need to flee and her heart had adopted the fast beating of a rabbit’s.

She focused on the sound of Alistair’s heavy, rapid footfall and her own panting. The frigid night air seemed to liven her senses and she felt clarity slowly returning to her mind as they plunged into the scattered trees marking the edge of the forest.

“What are you doing?” she finally called, breathlessly.

“The roads are too dangerous,” he answered without slowing.

“No!” Celia cried and wrenched herself from his grip, stopping abruptly and pulling the hand that he had held protectively towards her chest as he jogged for a few steps further and stopped to look back at her. “What are _you_ doing?” she asked, the question laced with vitriol.

Her anger gave him pause. “Getting you out of here,” he finally answered, voice nearly childlike with uncertainty.

“How do I know this is not a trap you have laid for me, mage hunter?” Celia asked.

“Celia, this is not a trap. I am trying to help you.” When she did not respond he seemed to understand that more was required of him. “That man, the man you did not like he – It is true I was employed by someone to find an apostate but I…” His explanation was lacking and in Celia’s eyes, wholly insufficient as he stumbled over his words. Nothing made sense to her. She bristled.

“So why should I believe you?” Celia asked heatedly.

Alistair looked like he was struggling to find a new approach in the face of her anger. “You must realise I had more than enough opportunities to…finish the job but I did nothing. So why now? Please, I promise you: I just want to help you.”

“What was it all? That…. everything! Were you toying with me?” she spat.

“It wasn’t like that!”

“And you expect me to be grateful you have not yet lowered yourself to kill me, and to trust you as a result?”

“No! Yes, in a way. Please. I came to do a job but I couldn’t follow through with it. I just couldn’t. You were not what I expected.”

“So you spared me on a whim? But you did not think to warn me that there were others after me until they were snapping at my heels? You have put Winny and Red at risk, they were barely warned…” she took a few steps back in the direction of the inn.

“Celia!” Alistair was at her side in an instant and had her arm again. “It is too dangerous. They can handle what comes and you know as well as I do that they would not want you risking yourself any further.”

“So suddenly the man who came here to kill me is suddenly the leading expert on my safety? I was doing just fine avoiding trouble on my own.” Celia wrenched her arm free once more.

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t avoid me.”

Celia smacked her forehead. “Excuse me for not realising that the helpful stranger who kept doing my chores was just waiting for a chance to kill me. It was so obvious in hindsight!”

Alistair recoiled. “I never intended to kill you just –”

“Knock me over the head and take me back to be made Tranquil?” Celia supplied. “What if I had fought back! Then would you have killed me? What if I fight back now?” she yelled, knowing all the while that she should be keeping her voice lowered. Hot fury was building in her, even as she watched Alistair’s face twist with shame and knew his unspoken answer.

“I… I care about you Celia. You are in so much danger, someone has a personal stake in this. Someone powerful, with a lot of resources.”

“A personal stake? Why? What did I ever do to them? Serve them a stale roll?” Celia was incredulous at the prospect of a grudge held against her.

“It is a long story and we have not the time for it. But I know that they are wrong and I cannot…” he trailed off and took a long deep breath. When he spoke again his voice was different, lower, more persuasive. “Celia, please trust me to help you, though I have given you little enough cause to. Please,” he begged, “just trust me.”

Celia felt her pulse slowing as she watched Alistair. Her fury at him was dissipating, dissolving into cold, stark fear at her situation. She was annoyed at herself too: she _wanted_ to be furious with him but her anger was flagging.

Her gut told her to believe him, but the man she thought she knew and what she was hearing now…

“I don’t know if I can,” Celia finally answered, her voice tentative. His shoulders sagged, a man defeated. “But I want to,” she added, without intending to, without even considering it.  He reached for her hand again. She let him take it.

“Well, this is touching,” a voice interrupted from the darkness and Alistair’s grip tightened around Celia’s hand as he pulled her protectively behind him.

“Edleth,” he said calmly, drawing his sword with his free hand. “And alone? That was game of you. Thought I had taught you a lesson once already today.”

Celia could see blood on Edleth’s face, black as ink in the dim light. Edleth, chuckled, all the while the sense of malice emanated from him so strongly Celia could nearly taste it in the air, acrid and sharp, like the smell of rusted iron. “I will not be alone for long, we both know that. You caught me by surprise, but I have more tricks up my sleeve than you may realise.”

“I hope one of those tricks is a handkerchief because you are dripping blood everywhere,” Alistair retorted.

“Is that her, cowering behind you? Funny, I expected something more...spectacular, for you to have gotten so worked up. I suppose desperation has made you unfussy.”

“I am warning you Edleth. Walk away now, or not at all,” Alistair threatened.

“And what about you Apostate?” Edleth called. “Your reasons for trusting this man are as foreign to me as his misguided interest in you.” Celia felt Alistair tense. “It defies all logic! A stranger pairing was never witnessed, truly.”

“Edleth. Leave,” Alistair hissed.

“The apostate and the templar. They will write ballads about this…Tragic ones,” Edleth drawled.

“Templar?” Celia cried without meaning to.

Alistair turned his back on Edleth to face Celia, grasping her by her upper arms, holding on almost desperately. “Celia,” he said her name like a plea. He sounded so desperate that she couldn’t help but want to listen, though every instinct told her to get away.

“Tell me it is not true,” Celia demanded, quietly but firmly, watching his face carefully for any flicker of a lie.

Alistair lowered his eyes. “I can’t do that.”

This too? Had there been any honesty from him since their meeting? Feeling her begin to withdraw from him, Alistair released her arms and Celia ran into the night once more, deeper into the shadowed embrace of the dense trees.

She knew she should feel afraid, but all she felt was a heavy grief. She had lost all of the people she cared about and her home in a single moment. Again. And Alistair was…Celia could not finish the thought.

She felt in an almost dreamlike state, and barely registered the sounds of metal clanging from where she had left Alistair and Edleth. Barely registered as she stepped into a clearing and a group of apostate hunters set upon her in every direction, emerging from between the columns of trees and grinning like wolves until it was far too late to evade them.

* * *

 

Edleth had not been bluffing about having learned some new tricks. Alistair struggled to hold him off, wishing he had a shield as well as his blade. Wielding two axes and a sneer of contempt Edleth was proving more of a challenge than Alistair ever would have given him credit for in the past. Alistair had already taken a hard blow to the cheek with the handle of an axe, while the other had nearly sliced open his upper arm.

Alistair was being careless and if he didn’t get his act together, he was going to get himself killed.

Perhaps Alistair’s surprise at Edleth’s passable competence was putting him off. Or perhaps Celia’s look of shock and disappointment had. Alistair reprimanded himself for being so unfocused. A volley of blows rained down which he blocked above his head with his sword. He was better than this. He was better than Edleth. He needed to fight. He needed to concentrate. Alistair pushed the image of Celia’s round, shining eyes and the quaver in her voice as she had demanded the truth from his mind.

A few steps back to get his bearings. Sword poised. A deep breath.

Edleth was panting opposite him, energy spent too swiftly from lashing out at him in uncontrolled anger. Classic symptoms of the undisciplined and weak. Edleth’s nose was bleeding still, leaving spots of blood on his shirt. It was a pathetic sight and while Alistair felt the old, familiar loathing of the man rising in him from months of mutual antagonism, he quashed it down. Emotion was unhelpful, he need to focus.

Maker did he ever wish he had a shield though.

“Are you just going to stand there, looking sad about your girlfriend?” Edleth wheezed.

“Just letting you get your breath back.”

Edleth ran at him again with a yell. Alistair waited patiently, bracing himself, stance firm, grip on his sword steady. Edleth swung at him with his left axe: a chopping motion as if to fell a tree. Alistair stepped back. The swing was ungainly giving him time to dodge easily. As the axe swept before him, Alistair brought his sword down on the hand the wielded it. The axe dropped heavily into the snow. Edleth cried out, staggered forwards, raising his injured hand to examine it. Alistair kicked out and he fell backwards instead. Alistair stepped back towards him, sword raised once more, but Edleth had the presence of mind to swipe out at his ankles with the remaining axe, keeping him at a distance.

“Woah there,” Alistair chuckled a little. “Careful, you nearly got me.”

“Damn you, and your little apostate bitch,” Edleth spat.

“Now that is no way to speak to someone who was going to give you another chance to live. I would like to kill you, trust me. But it just seems unfair. I mean, _look_ at you,” Alistair tutted, voice laced with intentional condescension.  

In a feat of perseverance even Alistair had to admire, Edleth pushed himself up into a crouch with barely cooperating limbs. He rose unsteadily to his feet, unable to use his left hand, still clutching an axe in his right. With a snarl, the wounded man staggered towards Alistair again, axe raised high. Alistair kept his sword low, but ready.  “Can I give you a tip?” Alistair called as Edleth approached, intending to imbed his axe in the top of Alistair’s skull. “When you raise your weapon like that…” Edleth was close now, close enough Alistair could hear his wheezing breath, “You leave your torso open.” Alistair jerked his sword upwards, and it impaled Edleth through the stomach.

Alistair watched surprise register on the other man’s face, then pain. He stepped aside and yanked his sword cleanly out as the second axe fell to the ground, followed by its owner. Edleth lay on his side, trying to speak, making only a terrible gurgling sound as blood bubbled over his lips and ran down his cheek before puddling in the snow.

Alistair did not waste another moment in putting the man out of his misery. He had always hated Edleth, but not enough to let him suffer like an animal.

Crouching to clean his sword on the dead man’s cloak, Alistair looked in the direction Celia had run and wavered.

Instinctively, painfully almost, he wanted to follow her.

He wanted to ensure she got away cleanly from this place: from the peril that his dishonesty and hesitancy had placed her in. But perhaps that was selfish. Just a self-centred desire to know she was safe for his own peace of mind and comfort when clearly, she would rather he keep far, far away. It would be more respectful, surely, to leave her be and trouble her no further with his idiocy and betrayals, Alistair reasoned. Had he not let her down enough already?

And yet, there was a pull in his chest, urgent and growing stronger, that seemed to want to drag him in her direction. The rest of his body and his damned, rationalising mind resisted, but still the pull persisted, like a determined chain against an anchor, deeply embedded in the sea floor.

As he pondered, crouching still, an emerging full moon illuminated the Celia’s shallow footprints leading off into the trees.

* * *

 

Celia would have been dead already, were there a Templar among them. This thought brought Alistair to mind and she gulped and pushed it aside, needing every ounce of her mind to concentrate her magic and willpower into her barrier.

The group was inexperienced, their overconfident ambush and ensuing attempts to approach her indicated that much. But their number was plentiful enough to warrant concern. She did not have the strength to fight them all together, nor hold them off for much longer. She was backing up slowly toward a rocky outcrop and they followed, slinking and taunting from a distance. Though her initial outbursts had cowed them, Celia knew they must correctly suspect they could outlast her.

Though she knew she was effectively cornering herself, she wanted to protect her back, and to limit the number of them that could rush her when her barrier fell. One of them, just a young man with a hammer that could have been a blacksmith’s, took confident strides towards her to the jeering and encouragement of his peers. He smacked the head of his hammer into his palm.

When he got close, she lashed out with a rush of energy that manifested as a bolt of lightning. She had intended to warn him back, but pulsating fear had shaken her usual steady control and made her overcompensate. The energy release was uncharacteristic and immense, and the bolt of electricity that struck the man nearly lifted him off his feet. His body jerked erratically, limbs useless and thrashing, a pained grimace illuminated horrifically before he slumped and fell, his corpse smoking slightly, the repulsive smell of singed hair and burnt flesh reaching Celia seconds later. Her stomach churned as she looked at the crumpled, pathetic form.

The previously buoyant mood of the hunting party changed immediately as they saw one of their own fall. There were no smiles and teasing amongst their solemn ranks now. Their hard faces were furious, with determined eyes fixed on their prey.

On Celia.

Her back hit something solid: she had reached the rocky outcrop. As the hunters watched on, she crouched and drew a small glyph in the dirt at her feet.

Rising, Celia gulped again. Her mouth felt dry. There was a waver in her barrier, a ripple of energy that indicated a spot of weakness. The group set upon her at once, some silent signal running between them as they charged. Celia attempted to reinforce her barrier again, but felt it grow thin and overstretched. Blood rushing in her ears as panic set in, she tried to account for the figures charging towards her. Five? No, six. More? Her eyes darted to the oncoming blurs in her periphery.

Maker they were almost on her and her barrier had fallen. With an open palm, she dropped to the ground and activated her glyph. A ribbon of blue encircled her and as the nearest runner tried to cross it, he was hurled backwards. The next one, a woman with two daggers, also hit the invisible wall and bounced like a coin off a mattress.

Knowing she had bought herself seconds, minutes at most, Celia cast in a frenzy. A barrel-sized rock from the outcrop above her levitated for a moment, then fell, crushing the woman on the ground. Turning her attention to the other frontrunner that had been knocked back from the border of her glyph, Celia lashed out with more lightning. Electricity surged out and hit both him and another woman who had paused to check on her fallen companion. They both went down, though Celia was unsure if they were dead. She did not have the luxury of time enough to make certain and focused her attentions on a huge, dark haired man with a broadsword. He was canny to her glyph, and hovered at its periphery, biding his time with a menacing scowl on his face.

Watching him carefully, Celia was nearly struck by an arrow that went whizzing past her ear, close enough to ruffle her hair. She cursed at her carelessness and searched desperately in the tree line for the archer. The man with a broadsword laughed cruelly. Celia had mounted another weak, partial barrier, only enough to protect her front, just in time to block another arrow that shattered into splinters against its surface. Celia’s heart was racing now, as she wondered in terror if there was more than one archer.

The man with a broadsword waited patiently for her defences to fall, while another man with a spear in one hand and a shield held protectively out in front of him approached with careful, deliberate steps.

Another arrow flew at Celia. It shattered too, but would have hit her in the chest if her barrier had been down. Broadsword-man was shifting his weapon from hand to hand, looking eager. He was close enough to know she was trembling, and to see the beads of sweat forming on her forehead. She shuffled closer and deterred him, arm outstretched, with a burst of flame from her fingertips. The blaze was too weak to properly reach him, but he moved rapidly back.

Another arrow flew and shattered, testing the resolve of her barrier. It was weakening, shrinking in scale, barely the size of a shield now. An arrow from the right angle would fell her instantly and the effort to keep any barrier raised at all was bringing tears to her eyes. There was a sizzling sound and the blue circle of the glyph disintegrated at her feet. Another arrow glanced off the edge of her barrier and hit the rock behind her.

Celia was fast running out of options when suddenly, a strangled cry came from somewhere in the distant trees. The other two men before her looked around in confusion as Alistair came charging into the clearing, waving a bloodied sword and yelling like a man possessed. Celia, now shaking in earnest, brain fogged from the exertion of her casting, could not make out Alistair’s words which sounded muffled and distant even as he drew closer. The man with the spear and shield was moving out to meet Alistair who slowed for the confrontation.

She was crying now, from exhaustion or relief she did not know. A small gasp escaped her and she let out a tiny cry of: “Alistair!” as two more warriors ran at him and the dark haired man who had been watching her also took steps towards the new threat, moonlight catching the cruel edge of his broadsword.

With all of the enemy attention redirected to Alistair, her barrier finally fell and Celia nearly did too but she turned and braced herself on the rock face, before sliding slowly to the ground. She wanted to help Alistair - he was so desperately outnumbered - but she had nothing left as she lay, barely having the strength to keep her upper body raised from the ground with her shaking arms. Minutes passed as blood pounded in her ears and she tried to steady her breathing. Hair curtained either side of her face and she listened with horror to the combat she could not see as her vision of the ground swam.

“Celia!” Alistair let out a terrified cry that prompted her to roll onto her back, just in time to see the broadsword raised directly above her.

In a final burst of magic from a reservoir she did not know she had, a funnel of ice blasted in the sword-wielders direction as the blade came within inches of striking her. Astonished, Celia had a moment to inspect her attacker, frozen solid and completely encased in ice, expression trapped in concentrated aggression, before Alistair was there, his own weapon striking out forcefully and shattering the man into a thousand pieces.

Celia ducked and used her arm to cover her eyes as shards of ice fell about her, letting out a shriek of amazement and disgust.

“I swear I had no idea that was going to happen,” Alistair said, his breathing laboured.

“Neither did I,” Celia replied, still stunned, brushing pieces of…pieces of frozen corpse from her skirt.

“Are you alright?” Alistair asked, sounding concerned, voice rasping. “For a minute there I thought I was –” he let out a small groan and shook his head a little, “I thought I was too late.”

“I am fine…all things considered. Glad you arrived when you did. Are you…?” Celia trailed off. Even from her vantage point on the ground, Alistair looked as if he was swaying a little. He bent, and began to extend his arm as if to hold out a hand to help her up, but straightened with another groan and withdrew it quickly. “Alistair,” Celia said again, voice high with concern.

Alistair let out a strained chuckle. “Of course. Perfect. Just peachy. Only…no shield,” he said, but his voice was becoming increasingly faint. Alistair placed a hand briefly to his abdomen before examining it with a quiet: “Ah.”

Celia saw a palm stained dark with blood before he faltered, face ashen, and fell heavily before her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the most fun to write & I have so been looking forward to posting it! Finally! :)


	10. Doubt

Panic stricken, Celia capitalised on a surge of adrenaline to roll Alistair onto his back. He stirred momentarily, eyes fluttering, expression confused before blacking out again. Propped above him, Celia wasted precious second patting his cheek, desperately, stupidly hoping he would open his eyes and grin at her, unharmed and well. But instead, he remained troublingly still.

Eyes closed and lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, he might have looked peaceful except for the sickly pallor of his skin and the bruise forming along his cheekbone.

Celia scrabbled to locate the source of the blood, and quickly found the tear in his jerkin and shirt.

Her heart sank. It did not take much investigating for Celia to establish two terrible facts: that the wound was deep, and that she did not have the energy left to heal it. What she would have given in that moment, for another lyrium potion.

Celia knew that what she lacked in conveniently produced potions for mana regeneration, she had to make up for in swift action and whatever else she had on hand. Alistair’s life depended on it.

Her bag had been dropped early in the ambush and she dashed to retrieve it before skidding to a stop and kneeling back at Alistair’s side. It was bulkier than usual and with a jolt of remembrance she produced Alistair’s jumper from the top. She used it to prop up his head as a makeshift pillow.

Suddenly, a flash of greenery protruding from behind a distant tree trunk caught her attention and in a second she was up again. Elfroot: it really did grow everywhere.

Clutching the herb, a dismayed whimper escaped her as she returned to Alistair and rolled up the edge of his shirt. She suspected the spear was responsible for a long shallow swipe across his stomach ending in a deep gash on his right side. Surveying it critically, Celia knew it could have been much worse, had the spear been raised higher and punctured a lung, or if the attacker had successfully plunged it into his stomach as they had clearly intended. Alistair must have dodged at the last minute, enough to save his internal organs perhaps, but not a couple of pints of his blood.

To make a poultice, Celia took a fistful of the fresh Elfroot leaves and began to chew them, adding a pinch of Shepherd’s Purse she had in her bag. Spitting it into her palm she began to apply it to the worst of the wound, hoping to constrict the vessels and stem the bleeding quickly.

A groan escaped Alistair making Celia jump. He sat up quickly then put a hand to his forehead and squeezed his eyes closed. Knowing he was at risk of passing out again, Celia pushed him back down gently, one palm splayed on his chest, the other bracing him by the shoulder and slowing his descent. He relented and looked at her blearily, expression vulnerable and confused. “Ouch,” he finally whined as explanation.

Celia had to stop herself from letting out a nervous chuckle at the ridiculous understatement and reshuffled her expression into something she hoped was reassuring. He stared at her face, expression muddled, as if he was trying to remember where he recognised her from. She took his hand and squeezed it comfortingly.  “You have been wounded and I am trying to help you. In a little while, I will need you to help me.”

“Okay,” he said uncertainly, but she felt his hand tighten around hers.

“I have put a poultice on the wound. It would have stung at first; I am sorry. Now it should feel better, cooler.”

“Celia. Are you alright?” he asked, echoing a question from before his collapse.

“Yes. I am fine, thanks to you.” He seemed to relax little, his shoulders rolling back and his fingers loosening around hers.

She withdrew her hand from his grip and turned to her apron, unknotting the string at her back and pulling it over her head. There had been no time to remove it when they had fled from the inn and now it would be put to good use. She tore it into strips, biting her lip anxiously as Alistair began to shiver in the cold night air. Celia knew that time was against her.

 “Alistair,” she said in a quiet but firm tone. When she held his attention, she continued: “Very slowly, you need to sit up for me.” He obliged and she quickly undid the fastening of his cloak at his neck. It fell away and understanding her intent, Alistair pulled his own shirt and jerkin over his head, wincing slightly as he raised his arms before dropping it in a heap.

He was shivering more violently now, the pale skin of his muscled torso covered in goose bumps. There were several angry patches of red and possible sites of swelling that Celia suspected would later be nasty bruises but she had no time to examine them properly. With Alistair upright she could see the wound better. The cut across his stomach was not worrying her too much, and it would be bandaged incidentally. The hunk of flesh gashed out of his side looked even worse from this angle however, and was still sluggishly oozing trickles of blood down his side despite the poultice. Celia could see an alarming puddle of blood on the ground where Alistair had lain.

Working quickly, Celia fashioned a pad out of some of the apron fabric and placed it over the deepest part of the gash in his side. She took his right wrist and guided his hand to where hers lay over the wound. “Hold this, very gently,” she instructed, “Do not press down on it.” He did, watching her curiously now, his expression less dazed than it had been which she credited to the Elfroot poultice. It was a good sign.

“I can’t feel it as much,” he said, as if to confirm her thoughts.

“Good. Now hold still.” She used a strip of her apron to bandage his torso, leaning close to him to reach around his back and tying the fabric tightly to hold the pad of fabric securely in place over the wound as Alistair moved his hand out of the way. She added a few more strips for good measure. She expected that this process was painful, uncomfortable at the very least, for Alistair but he was stoic as she worked.

Celia leaned back to examine her efforts. Not bad, given the circumstances. Alistair examined her in turn. “Are you alright Celia?” he asked again and she tutted in response.

“Please stop asking me that. I am fine and you are not.” Celia felt suddenly teary, the adrenaline was starting to wear off and she was feeling tired, her emotions bubbling dangerously close to the surface.

“No, I am okay,” he answered quietly, his expression earnest. Celia tore her eyes away, instinctively knowing if she looked at his sincere, worried face, still pale from shock and blood loss, for a second more she would definitely start crying. Instead, she scrabbled to untangle his shirt and jerkin, which she pulled over his head, rather more forcefully than she had intended to. Then she added his new jumper for good measure as Alistair helped, quiet and cooperative like a well-behaved child. He had difficulty raising his right arm again but managed to get it into the sleeve.

“I need to check that too,” Celia told him offhandedly, then replaced his cloak, refastening it at his neck and draping it back around his shoulders. She stuffed the shredded remnants of the apron into her bag then nervously chewed at her bottom lip again as she looked at her patient. “Is it okay if I try using some magic on you?”

Alistair hesitated. “Haven’t you already?” he asked, glancing down at where he was injured.

“No, just herbs. I do not have a lot of mana left.”

“Well you shouldn’t overdo it then! I am fine, doing much better. Really, don’t waste it one me,” he protested quickly, placing a defensive hand lightly over his injury.

“But we need to walk. To get away from this place. There might be more mage hunt – of them,” Celia quickly corrected herself.

There was an awkward silence, Alistair hung his head contritely. “I should really explain –” he began.

“There is no time. May I just help you feel a little better? Just to ease a little pain and give you a little jolt of energy. Just enough to get us out of here.”

“To where?”

“To my cottage. It is nearer than the inn and much safer. I do not think we have any other options, that is about as far as you are going to be able to travel.”

Alistair was shaking his head before Celia had finished speaking. “You should leave me here Celia, just go. Maybe someone else will come and they can help me and I can send them off on a false trail. Give you a head start.”

“And maybe they won’t come tonight and you will freeze to death or finish bleeding out. Or maybe they look around,” she gestured at the impressive number of corpses scattered around the clearing, “and realise I did not do all this on my own and figure you are the accomplice. I think we both know these are the more likely scenarios.”

“I am the reason you are in this mess,” he said with conviction, like a repentant man before a jury.

“Alistair, the mage hunters would have found me eventually, come what may. The difference that saved my life was that you were here too.”

“But –”

“No arguing! Here, chew on these,” Celia commanded, all but force feeding him the last of the Elfroot leaves. “Now, may I heal you? Can you trust me?” she asked, hand beginning to glow as Alistair nodded a meek acquiescence.

“I already do,” he mumbled through the Elfroot.

* * *

 

As she lifted, then reapplied the final protective ward, the small, dark cabin came into view. Fortunately, most of the magical legwork was done in the wards and passing through them cost Celia little as she supported Alistair through the snow and undergrowth, his left arm thrown heavily over her shoulders. He gallantly tried to put as little weight on her as possible but every stumble made him falter and wince with pain and Celia braced him as best she could.

She unlocked the door, kicked it closed behind her with her foot and they staggered towards the narrow bed tucked in one corner against the wall, which Alistair gratefully collapsed onto, hunched and seated, arms loose at his sides.

“You must be exhausted,” Celia said, and helped him with his boots.

“So must you.”

“It is cold. Here, lay down,” she countered, ignoring him and pulling back the blankets on the bed. He flopped onto his back with a heavy sigh. “I can better attend to your wound tomorrow when you are rested,” she encouraged in a low voice but Alistair hardly needed any prompting and was practically asleep before she had pulled the covers back over him.

He mumbled something indistinct, and then in an instant Celia was all but alone again. She watched his chest rise and fall for a few moments, unconsciously reassuring herself that he was alive and then paced about the room, rubbing her arms, cold and nervous. A fire could not be lit, that much she knew. Though she may be able to conceal smoke well enough on a good day, it was too much of a risk when she was being actively hunted. At any rate, she had not the strength for it.

She tried sitting in her carved wooden chair, stiff and unwelcoming to her aching body, and was soon up pacing again, hoping movement would combat the chill that made her muscles tense and throat sore even now they were inside. Unable to stay still, she straightened jars on shelves, she restacked carelessly splayed books. She checked on Alistair, smoothing his ruffled hair before resting her palm gently on his forehead for a moment and running light fingertips down his cheek. “Still so cold,” she thought anxiously and took off her cloak and lay that over him too.

Celia sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, the only small strip not occupied by Alistair’s sleeping form, and wondered how long she was going to pretend there were any other sensible alternatives.

Her boots were removed, but she left her socks on, her toes numb. Raising the covers gingerly, she hoped he would not wake as she slipped into the bed beside him. As Alistair lay on his back, she decided to wedge herself into the narrow space with her own back facing him however she quickly discovered that this left her with no purchase, and at far too much risk of falling face first onto the floor. Turning with tiny, incremental movements she rolled onto her other side. Tucked beside Alistair’s arm, her chin was resting just above his shoulder, Celia grabbed a handful of his jumper at his chest and clung on, feeling far less precarious than she had before, not to mention warmer. Still, she lay tense for a moment, before Alistair’s consistent, undisturbed deep breaths and the comparative warmth that was finally seeping into her lulled her into a state of relaxation, then finally, sleep.

* * *

 

Alistair knew she was there before he had even opened his eyes. He could feel gentle puffs of breath against his neck, feel her warmth and smell her hair on the pillow, something sweet and floral. Blearily cracking open his eyes he first saw the arm across his chest, then the hand, clutching a fistful of his jumper. Craning his head to the side he could see why: she was hardly on the bed, clinging onto him for dear life yet somehow: sleeping all the same. Feeling remarkably selfish, and not for the first time recently, he tried to shuffle over then quickly stifled a gasp of pain as his injured side made contact with the wall.

He had temporarily forgotten about the minor detail of a spear impaling him.

As a compromise, he carefully outstretched his left arm, eased it underneath Celia’s heavily sleeping form, and wrapped it around her, securing her more safely to his side.

Despite the strangeness of the situation he was waking up in, the details that explained how he had gotten there were returning sluggishly to his sleep fogged brain. Yet he was not alarmed; some echo of a sense of danger narrowly evaded lingered and instead he felt safe and comfortable. Though it still seemed very dark, it could have been morning. He yawned. Celia wriggled a little, wedging herself closer to him with a tiny shiver. He reached for the blankets, drawing them higher about her, something in his shoulder fiercely protesting, a muscle twanging with pain until he let his arm drop again. His side throbbed painfully, whatever relief the elfroot dressing had provided clearly beginning to fade. But apart from that he was warm and comfortable, and fighting an almost unconquerable wave of exhaustion.

He had not intended to, but he fell asleep once more.

He next woke when Celia did. She looked at him across the pillow, face only inches away, first with hazy recognition, then wide-eyed alarm. She quickly tried to get up, but found herself trapped by his supporting arm which he quickly withdrew so that she could rapidly slither out from under the covers. He felt her absence, the cold space beside him.

“Good morning,” he said flippantly, trying to ease her mood. She nodded and rubbed her hands together.

“I might risk starting the fire,” she said, teeth chattering.

Alistair jolted into worried wakefulness and sat up, grimacing a little. “I know the man who is seeking you and he will not be persuaded to give up from one failed attempt to capture you. You must be careful.” Technically, there were two failed attempts if you counted Alistair himself along with Edleth and his gang but he knew the point still stood.

“I can conceal the smoke to an extent, and we will not be here much longer at any rate. I need to boil water. With a new dressing and a little healing I should be able to get you fit to…go your own way shortly. I can show you the path back to the village, if you would like to get your luggage, or point you in the direction of the next nearest town from here instead.”

“There is nothing of importance for me to go back for.” They looked at each other through the silence, and the pale morning light. Alistair continued: “You definitely need to keep moving. Do you have a plan of where to go next?”

“I always have a plan. Several usually,” Celia answered with a wry smile.

“Good,” Alistair said and did not ask her any further questions on that matter as she magically lit the fire bringing instant warmth and light to the cold dim room. He spun his runic worry token thoughtfully as she worked. Now that he was more fully awake, he could feel his side throbbing painfully and from the way Celia kept throwing him anxious glances he guessed the thought of it was troubling her too.

Eventually she cleared her throat. “I am going to…” she trailed off and wiggled her fingers demonstratively.

“Ok,” Alistair consented, lifting his shirt and honestly grateful for anything that might ease the pain.

 She sat beside him, staring contemplatively at the makeshift bandage for a moment before beginning to remove it. Alistair flinched as her fingertips brushed the skin of his torso.

“Sorry!” she quickly withdrew her hands.

“No,” he said with a small laugh. “Just cold.”

“Oh,” she said and rubbed her hands together to take the iciness off before touching him again, more tentatively this time. The bandage was unravelled and while Celia examined it with scrutiny, Alistair made a conscious choice to not look at it and stared off at the wall.

Moments later, Alistair felt warm threads of her magic against his skin, then in the wound. He clenched his jaw in anticipation but while it was uncomfortable, it was not painful. He risked a glance at Celia. Her eyes were closed and he watched her face, calm and still for the most part, occasionally crinkling with concentration.

Her eyes opened and Alistair looked away quickly. His wound felt considerably better but Celia shook her head, arms folded and face concerned.

“It still isn’t good,” she told him. “There is little more I can do now however. You need rest, more than anything. How do you feel?”

“Good!” he felt an instinctive need to reassure her but she continued to frown at him. “Well, better at any rate.” When she still looked sceptical he sighed and admitted: “Tired, very tired. A teensy bit sore.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it? You got skewered with a spear don’t try that ‘brave face’ nonsense with me.”

“I was hardly skewered,” Alistair objected.

“Near enough. Do you think you will be alright to travel?

“I will manage.”

 Celia looked unconvinced, but made no further comments and wasted no more time as the water was already boiling. She cooled it with magic, and his wound was cleaned and carefully redressed with proper bandages. She also attempted to spot clean the blood from his shirt and jerkin but made little difference and handed them back to him regretfully.

“It’s fine,” he reassured her before pulling them back over his head. An uncomfortable silence had fallen between them. She hovered at the other side of the room, pretending to be busy, tipping out water and hanging out cloths: tidying the room they both knew she was about to leave forever. “I feel like you should be asking me to explain myself. Demanding it even,” he said. Celia had her back to him and paused, but said nothing. “I kind of wish you would actually,” Alistair added.

“I am not sure…I don’t know that I really want to hear it.”

“Why not?” Alistair asked, slightly exasperated.

Celia turned to face him. “I keep telling myself you must have had a good reason, or that there must be an explanation that would…I really want you to have a good explanation, so much so Alistair. I am just afraid that you don’t.”

“I would like to try. If you will allow me to,” Alistair said. His heart felt heavy at the look of disappointment on her face, the sag of her shoulders. This was all his fault.

“Alright, but we only have so much time,” she said quietly.

Alistair wondered where to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this in a bit of a hurry because otherwise it would have been super delayed due to RL – I apologise if there is an abnormally high number of errors! Also, it goes without saying but nothing in this work constitutes medical advice (though Elfroot being fictional probably gave that away). If you are stabbed by a spear, please consult your GP.


	11. Inevitable

Celia watched Alistair carefully, noting the procession of emotions that flickered across his thoughtful face as he evidently struggled to decided what to speak of, or how to phrase it. His agitation was clearly mounting, he was worrying that ring he wore, something she noticed he did when uneasy. Still unconvinced that a full confession would be beneficial to either of them, she leaned towards him, resting her hands on the back of the chair.

“You really don’t have to do this. Perhaps it is too much to ask…the state you are in.”

“Jowan,” Alistair said abruptly.

“How do you know that name?” Celia snapped upright, like a dog hearing a whistle.

“I met him.” Alistair looked directly at her and answered the question he knew she had: “He is dead.”

Celia felt an unexpected rush of grief rise in her. Her vision swam and she tried and failed to repress a shuddering sigh that came deep from within her chest. She moved the chair, and carefully sat down on it. “How?”

Alistair ignored the question. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. I am shocked is all. It is not a name I expected to hear ever again.”

“You are allowed to be upset. He was your friend once.”

Celia looked at her hands for a long time and Alistair remained patiently quiet as she gathered her thoughts. “I am sad for the person I thought I knew, but really I lost him a long time ago. Please, tell me what happened.”

“He took on work in Redcliffe. The Arlessa hired him to train her son who was showing magical inclinations. But he had another motive, one he was hired to accomplish: to poison the Arl.  You may guess it did not end well. The Arl fell gravely ill as Jowan intended, but the boy, Connor, was possessed, much of the village was destroyed by...walking corpses”

“No.” Celia shook her head looking aghast. “So where did you come in? Why were you there, not fighting darkspawn?”

“The Hero – Warden, had business with the Arl. We arrived in the thick of it.”

“The child? Connor?”

Alistair’s mouth twisted. “Dead. The Warden deemed the demon threat too great.”

“I had no idea…Jowan,” Celia replied weakly. She was shocked and wondered if Jowan had stumbled into this by accident, fallen in over his head. “But to poison an Arl…and the poor child,” she reasoned aloud, eyes wide with dismay. It occurred to her that Jowan may have had such a plan before they left the tower, that the lovesick act was just a ploy to trick her naïve self into helping him. It was impossible to know, but perhaps he had not just strayed down a dark path after their escape and maybe she really had been an instrumental pawn in some terrible masterplan.

Alistair’s insistent voice interrupted her musings. “Do you understand Celia? This is why you are being hunted. They – The Arl thinks that you helped Jowan escaped, that you were party to the entire plot in Redcliffe.”

A hand flew to Celia’s mouth. “Alistair, I never –”

“I know, I know you didn’t. But he hired me, though I did not know it at the time, with an end to find you. And those other men too. There will be more,” he insisted.

“But it was my fault: I did help him escape! And I fled from him when I…perhaps I could have stopped him somehow. Had I known what he would do…”

“Celia don’t start this. He was a blood mage, you had just seen what he was capable of!” Alistair gestured emphatically. “Confronting him would have been madness: of course you had to run! From all of it!”

Celia let out a disbelieving huff of a laugh. “So now the templar is trying to convince the apostate that she was right to flee the Circle?”

Alistair laughed too. “I had my doubts about you and was proven firmly wrong. I am not going to let you start having them about yourself.”

“I can’t help but feel responsible,” Celia explained with an exasperated sigh. "At the very least I was involved. I did wonder about where Jowan…but I never could have imagined that he…It is awful,” she finished lamely. The words hardly encompassed the anguish she felt.

“I know this must be a lot to process but if we don’t have much time…”

“You’re right. Please continue, you must have more to tell me,” Celia said, firmly pushing the image of Jowan to the back of her mind and slamming a door closed on it.

“Yes. About the templar thing. I am not one. Technically. I never finished training.”

“Ah,” Celia said, a memory clicking into place. “Because you were recruited to the Grey Wardens. I did wonder where you were trained.”

“I er, well, you nearly had me for a minute there, with my rather flimsy backstory,” he said rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “So I am not a templar, not really. But after I left the Wardens, and after the Blight ended my abilities leant themselves to…mage hunting.”

“Naturally,” Celia said drily.

“I didn’t do a lot! At all. I was a bit of a mess, to be honest. And then I got a few jobs and the coin was helpful and well, _they_ weren’t like you.”

“Oh?” Celia raised an eyebrow.

“I swear, every apostate I went after was summoning demons, or practicing blood magic or generally tormenting innocents. Stopping them always seemed like the right thing to do. But you were…” he trailed off, gazing at her fixedly and feeling embarrassed, Celia looked at the ground. “Kind,” he finally finished.

“So you did nothing.”

“I was trying to ‘observe’ you. I wondered if you were doing sneaky witch things on the side. And you were. Healing the elderly and delivering babies,” he muttered.  “I could hardly justify completing my task.”

He sounded so jaded Celia wondered if he was annoyed she hadn’t turned out to be a simple fetch or kill. Embarrassed, she said: “Well thank you. For giving me a chance.”

“Any reasonable person would have,” Alistair said firmly.

“In my experience, reasonable people don’t usually become apostate hunters,” Celia answered, more sharply than she had intended. Alistair hung his head and she softened her tone. “So I mean it: thank you.” Alistair, seemingly at a loss for words, just shrugged slightly, flinching in pain at the action. “Oh no, I forgot to check your shoulder. You should have reminded me.”

“Stop wasting your mana. You might have need of it before the day is out.”

“I have need of it now: stop being a martyr,” she scolded him, rising from her chair.  He resisted no further and standing beside him, she hovered a hand over his shoulder and quickly identified the damaged muscle. Easing the swelling was a quick process that would speed up the natural healing and reduce pain so Celia was done in a moment. “There,” she told him when she was satisfied.

He gingerly rotated his shoulder a few times and sighed with relief. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a knack for this?”

“Your face is a little bruised too,” she reached out for his cheek but he gently caught her fingers.

“Now that would be a waste of magic.” He let go, and she abandoned her attempt without argument, taking a few steps backwards. She looked at him. He looked at the floor between his feet.

“I am glad you insisted on explaining. I understand better now. Thank you for being honest with me,” Celia said.

“I figured it was about time. Long overdue actually. I didn’t want…none of this quite went to plan.”

Celia, smiling, gave her head a tiny shake. “I am not what an apostate is meant to be and you are not what an apostate hunter is meant to be. What a mess: how could we both get it so wrong?”

“That’s right this is allll just a big misunderstanding! Somewhere we just went off script, right?” They both laughed but suddenly Alistair’s face fell serious, his voice pleading. “Celia, I don’t expect you to now…or ever but I do hope in time you might think of me and forgive me for my stupidity and failure to act sooner.”

“You got stabbed for me: I don’t think it is right for you to beg for forgiveness at this point.”

“What? That easy? One little life-threatening wound and you’re willing to call it even? Had I known that I would have done it sooner!”

Celia laughed. “Something like that. Alistair.” She hesitated. “There really is nothing to forgive. I don’t believe my first impression of you was wrong. Even now. In that sense you never deceived me.”

“What we…The time we spent together. That wasn’t a lie. That was me.” Alistair’s voice was low and so sincere he sounded almost desperate.

She smiled in what she hoped was a comforting way. “I know.”

“This is uh, very complicated. I bet you’ll be glad to see the end of it all. The back of me.” Alistair shrugged in a self-deprecating manner and let out an awkward laugh.

A flicker of a shadow crossed over Celia’s face as she was reminded of the journey ahead. They had wasted a lot of time already and it was time to leave.  “We need to go,” she said, hands on her hips looking about the cabin. “But perhaps something to eat first.”

* * *

 

Alistair kept wanting to speak, but could think of nothing further to say. In silence, they ate a little stale bread and some new winter apples, all that her larder had on hand before Celia repacked her bag and they set off. Celia paused outside of the cabin, resting her hand on the door, sadness etched on her face, saying a silent goodbye to more than just the building. She did not look back as they walked away.

It was a bright day, though the cold was still biting. After an hour of walking in solemn silence, both carefully listening for any approaching footfalls or other signs of pursuit, Celia stopped.

“This is as far as we go together. The next town is in that direction.” Celia pointed. “You won’t reach it by nightfall but once you find the road there will be farms and at least one should let you stay the night somewhere warm. You must rest.” Celia gestured towards his wound then hesitated. “Do you know what you will do now? Next?” she asked.

“Maybe keep apple picking? I _may_ have developed a burning passion for it, found my true calling,” he joked.

Celia did not laugh.

 Alistair noticed that she was growing increasingly agitated, almost anxious and fidgeting endlessly. He assumed she was in a hurry to leave and he did not blame her, the situation being what it was: peril at her heels. But every selfish part of him wanted to linger, to drag out this moment. Somehow it felt so normal, so right to be standing opposite her. Everything that had happened seemed so distant here, encircled by the bare-branched trees, all sounds muffled by the snow, glittering fresh and white in the sunshine.

Celia was shifting from foot-to-foot in front of him, adjusting the strap of her bag impatiently but saying nothing, waiting for a serious answer to her question, he presumed.

He had to do it. He knew it then. He steeled himself to ask. It was now or never. A rush of adrenaline buzzing in his ears he began: “Actually, I had one thought, but it is foolish –”

Suddenly, with a look of fierce determination, she was rapidly closing the distance between them. Alistair froze. With a barely a hairsbreadth between them she halted, the momentum causing her bag to swing and hit him in the thigh. She grabbed the strap to halt it, and then just as quickly grasped the front of his cloak, forcing him to lean down slightly. Alistair blinked. He had stopped breathing and it seemed like she had too. It felt like time was moving in slow motion: Alistair could see every freckle on her nose, every individual eyelash as she looked down, then the flecks of green he had never noticed in her eyes as she looked up at him.

She closed her eyes. Confused, he widened his.

Alistair began trying to say something, he wasn’t sure what: it was a defence mechanism. Suddenly her lips were on his and the words were muffled, inaudible, then abandoned entirely. His mind was racing and so was his heart, he could feel it thudding almost painfully in his chest. He also wasn’t entirely sure but he may have gone deaf, the forest, the world seemed to be fading around him. It seemed like any eternity until he came back to his senses and reached out to hold her, to react to the kiss.

His arms wrapped around her waist, hands splayed against her lower back. She seemed to relax against him as if relieved. Her eyes were still firmly closed. He squeezed his eyes shut too, and after a moment his lips parted slightly. It surprised him when hers followed suit. Her mouth was soft against his own chapped lips. Her hands released his cloak and gently cupped his face, fingertips trailing against his jaw, thumbs stroking his cheeks, before slipping behind his neck and into his hair.

He had not been expecting this to happen. This had never happened before. It was better than he could have imagined but even so, mounting at the edge of his glowing happiness was a feeling of panic of what to do next.

Celia pulled away slightly, hands still buried in his hair. Alistair opened his eyes. He was overwhelmed: by their narrow escape the previous night, by the kiss, by her perfect face and the way the light behind her made her hair glow in halo framing it. “Maker’s breath, you are beautiful,” he said, his voice warm, and cracking on the final word. Immediately, Celia looked troubled and pulled away further, withdrawing her hands. Alistair disliked the new distance between them but released her from his arms as she stepped backwards. He stayed put, still stunned, and barely resisted the urge to touch his still tingling lips in wonderment.

A silence fell between them. Celia looked at the ground.

Feeling off balance, palms sweating despite the cold, Alistair scrambled for firmer footing. He hated how uneasy Celia looked and felt an urgent responsibility to alleviate her distress somehow. There was something people were probably meant to say in this situation. Likely something smooth or charming.

Inspiration did not strike.

Celia was looking uncertainly at him. “I am sorry,” she finally managed. Tentatively she began to speak again: “I just had to –”

Still imbued with the need to help her somehow, Alistair started to babble: “Actually, I had been going to suggest - That is, just tell me if this is inappropriate but I was going to ask you if perhaps I might travel with you? For a while? If I may?” Alistair was feeling slightly faint. Maybe his wound was bleeding again? Probably that was it.

“What? No!” Celia squeaked, her face contorting with obvious horror. Alistair recoiled, appalled with himself, embarrassed by how disturbed she was by the mere suggestion. It had been a hope only, a very faint one. He couldn’t say he wasn’t surprised.

He tried to hide his disappointment as Celia covered her face with both hands. “Alright! It is okay! I would never want to impose, after everything - the grief I have caused you. Of course, I just would have liked to see you put some distance between this place and the next. That is all! And help, for what that is worth. Which is not much. But it was an offer, a suggestion only. I will not –” Alistair explained hastily, garbling his words slightly.

“No!” Celia finally managed, dropping her hands. She was crimson and looked utterly embarrassed, Alistair realised. “I just never would have done _that_ …” she said with emphasis. Alistair blinked. “Only I thought this would be the last time I would ever see you,” she explained meekly.

His heart leapt a little as he wondered at what she was saying and what it meant. “Ha ha, you can’t take it back now! Too late!” he teased with false bravado, still desperately trying to ease the tension. It worked and she finally let out a faint, breathy laugh.

“I don’t want to take it back,” she said, with a small, timid smile that sent a rush of warmth coursing through his body despite the chilly morning air and emboldened him once more.

“I know we haven’t know each other for very long, especially considering I have been lying to you for a solid seventy percent of that time –”

“Eighty,” Celia corrected, raising an eyebrow.

“Fine. Seventy-five percent terrible, bald-faced lies and brazen deceit from me,” he agreed. “But amongst it all I have come to…care for you. A great deal actually. And after what we have been through together, you would have every right to cast me aside, or run for the hills or mage-zap me or whatever. I deserve it! But somehow, you haven’t. Maybe I am fooling myself, I don’t know. But I do know that if I had my way I would stay by your side, for as long as you would want me there. Or permit me.” He was so nervous he could barely look at her face. She seemed calmer now, her own embarrassment eased as she patiently listened to him. He swallowed, apprehensive about continuing. “I know it should be impossible, but I wondered if, against all the odds, you might ever feel the same way?”

At least if this failed miserably he had gone down fighting. He tried to reassure himself with that thought. He may lose her forever but at least he wouldn’t have to add the regret of not telling her how he felt to his already ample pile of mistakes in life. 

“I think I already do,” she replied, taking his hand, the simplicity of her confident answer in stark contrast to his own nervous rambling.

For a moment, the answer did not register. Then it did.

He did not know what to say. It mattered not however, as Alistair quickly realised that of course, the only sensible response was to kiss her once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poor lambs finally figured it out. Whew! :)


	12. Certainty

 Having kicked off his boots and thrown his cloak and bag haphazardly to the ground the moment they had walked through the door, Alistair flopped gratefully onto the bed, face first.

“How is it?” Celia asked. They had not seen a proper bed for weeks and with a snow storm looming, had finally given in to the temptation of a dingy little tavern with grubby windows and a surly, unwelcoming bartend who took their coin almost resentfully.

The mattress was lumpy and hard, the blanket felt rough against is cheek, but it was heaven all the same. “Why don’t you come and test it out with me?” he asked, in an exaggeratedly seductive tone. Any potential suaveness was completely destroyed by how muffled and weary his voice was. Celia laughed as she unloaded items from her bag onto the small table in the room. “What are you up to?” he asked, turning his head curiously as she took a seat.

“You will disapprove, no doubt. I dare not tell you.”

Now she had his attention. He propped himself up on his elbows and watched her hold a quill over a piece of parchment, brow creased in thoughtfulness. “You are writing to Winny and Red aren’t you?” It was a question, but he already knew the answer.

“Winny must be frantic. I am thinking of her health honestly. For Cecil’s sake,” she explained defensively, giving him a sideways look of pleading. “The manner in which we left was…”

“I may have made a _little_ bit of a scene when I dragged you out the door. I am man enough to admit that,” Alistair said, before letting his arms give out and collapsing heavily back down onto the mattress.

He sighed into the bedcover and Celia remained quiet. Alistair knew she was waiting for his disapproval and could sense her nervous energy from across the room. He certainly could tell her how risky and foolish the idea was. Lecture her on it at length as a matter of fact. Explain how as an apostate hunter he would have been looking out for exactly this kind of slip up, any moment of weakness: a single breadcrumb that would reveal a trail. But Maker knew she understood that well enough already and they had taken every precaution possible. He let out another, more resigned sigh. “Say ‘hello’ from me,” he said finally, voice muffled.

He listened to the scratching of the quill for a few brief moments before Celia said: “There. That will do.”

“Oh?” Alistair replied, wondering what she had written. He suspected that she had been brewing over writing this letter from a long time, and that her words were long-planned and carefully chosen.

“‘Dearest Custer, Winny, Red and little Cecil. Thinking of you all. We are both well,’” Celia read. “‘Both well’,” she repeated, “That should answer Winny’s burning question.”

“What burning question?” Alistair asked, rolling onto his back to make space as Celia finally lay down beside him. She kissed him on the cheek before resting her head on his chest. He wrapped an arm around her and carefully stroked her hair back from her face with his other hand.

“She was quite invested in the both of us I think. The both of us together I mean.”

“Really? I had no idea she had any notion…I thought I was being subtle.” 

Celia chuckled and rubbed his stomach affectionately. “So did I. Winny sees all and plus, she was quite fascinated by your…enigmatic backstory. Or complete lack thereof. Made you quite the romantic figure in her eyes.”

“Yes, well, I have had quite enough of being a man of mystery. Those days are well and truly over. Secret keeping does not suit me. At all.” He never, ever wanted to lie to her again.

“But it brought her such entertainment! She used to speculate that you were an Orlesian spy…”

“What a tear-uh-bull accuzation! ‘Ow could she?” Alistair cried with a truly awful attempt at an Orlesian accent.

“Quite! So she wondered: what would you even have been spying on in that little village? Her soup recipes? And that theory was quickly discarded. Then she thought you must be running from some tragic heartbreak. Maybe you had been in desperately in love with the woman of your dreams but she had been forced into an arranged marriage leaving you heartbroken and all at sea.”

“No. There is only you, as you well know.” Alistair punctuated his sentence by leaning to kiss the end of her nose.

Celia smiled up at him, turning a little pink. “Well, when she decided that perhaps your attentions turned a little too swiftly to me for a man who had supposedly lost his true love she dismissed that idea too. But I think her last theory was the one she was most invested in, most passionate about. Of course, despite the wildness of her fancies you still managed to shock us all with the truth.”

“Yesss,” he drawled. “I am never going to be able to apologise for that enough.”

Celia snuggled closer to him. “I for one am glad you came to apprehend me. Otherwise we would never have met.”

“Just like you to find a silver lining.”

“Silver linings are all I have most days, if that,” Celia said, then fell into a thoughtful silence. After a time she asked: “You don’t regret coming with me, do you? This is…Well this is all there is. It will never stop. The running will never stop.”

“There is _nowhere_ I would rather be than where you are. Whatever that entails,” Alistair said firmly. Celia let out a contented hum.

They were quiet for a moment, enjoying being out of the elements and in each other’s company.

“What was the last one?” Alistair asked after a long while.

“What?” Celia asked sleepily.

“The last theory Winny had about my background?”

“Oh,” Celia giggled. “She was convinced that you were royalty. Thought you had a ‘noble air’ about you. So naturally she speculated that you were a lost Prince from some place or another, hiding from your responsibilities and birthright.” Alistair went stiff. Celia pushed herself up to examine his face. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Alistair said, mustering a weak laugh.

Celia narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “There is nothing else you are hiding from me is there?”

Alistair hesitated, a confession on the tip of his tongue. “Apart from a minor obsession with my hair and an unholy love of fine cheeses, no.”

With a satisfied smile, Celia lay back down and Alistair squeezed his eyes shut with silent relief. It wasn’t a lie, not really. More an omission, or the withholding of what was frankly an entirely useless piece of information. It was totally irrelevant. No need to trouble Celia with it, she had enough on her mind.

Alistair had every intention of telling her. Eventually.

 He was - he had decided in that split second - enjoying the moment far, far too much to ruin it with that particular revelation.

* * *

 

The snowstorm abated, Alistair and Celia were sad to leave the relative comfort of four walls, a roof and a bed, but pleased at least to be saying goodbye to the persistently surly innkeeper. It was also true, that with the letter now on its way to Winny, they were keen to keep moving, just in case someone did pick up on their scent.

They had just about crossed the courtyard when Celia stopped abruptly, and stood frozen, a look of intense concentration on her face.

“What? What is it?” Alistair asked. “Did you leave something in the room?”

“No. What was that?”

Alistair looked around the courtyard and saw nothing. “Snow, or so I believe it is called.”

“No seriously Alistair what is _that_?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you are talking about.”

“Shh! I hear something.” Celia cased around the courtyard determinedly, stomping through the snow, pausing periodically to listen, while Alistair watched on with pointed concern. Perhaps the stress was getting to her: she was behaving as if slightly unhinged.

After a few moments he held out his hands, beckoning her towards him. “Celia dearest, there is nothi-”

“SHH!” Celia insisted. There it was again. A mewling, whimpering noise, coming from a door leading into the stable. She hurried towards it.

“Oy! Leave that!” The innkeeper was at the window, then sprinted outside towards the stable and Celia.

Alistair strode to intercept him. “Hold up there friend. Something in the barn you don’t want us to see?” he asked in a jovial tone but his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

“No, he’ll take her bloody hand off is all!”

Alistair spun on his heel. “Celia wait!”

But it was too late. She wrenched open the door and a mabari came bursting out. Celia let out a surprised yelp. Panicked, Alistair sprinted towards her, then slowed, then stopped.

Celia squealed again joyfully, giggling as the mabari affectionately nuzzled its snout into her hand. She stroked its head, scratching vigorously behind the ears and the dog let out some low, contended grunting noises.

“Celia,” Alistair breathed disbelievingly. “I think…I think I know that dog.”

“How could you possibly know him? Distant relative of yours?” Celia asked, rubbing the dog's neck as he stared adoringly up at her, tongue lolling.

“Brutus!” Alistair called. The mabari froze for a moment, ears pricking. He turned his head towards Alistair then padded over cautiously. Alistair crouched down to his level and offered the back of his hand.

“Oh nooow someone is going to lose a hand, maybe a face too. Watch yourself,” the innkeeper said, sounding delighted at the prospect.

Alistair ignored him. “Hey old friend, remember me?” Brutus sniffed cautiously, almost disbelievingly then began to bark ecstatically. “You do!” Alistair cried, before he was knocked sprawling backwards into the snow by the enthusiastic hound.

“ _Brutus_? Are you serious?” Celia managed to ask even through her laughter.

“I did _not_ name him,” Alistair replied, still flattened in the snow, voice muffled by a heft of ecstatic dog half over his face. He did not object, or try to rise, but petted whatever part of the dog he could reach as the mabari bounded back and forth over him, kicking up a flurry of snow.

“Why are you keeping this dog locked in a dark barn? Why is he skin and bones: do you not feed him?” Celia demanded of the innkeeper.

“Got it from some fancy travellers a few years back. A Warden I think he said he was, if you believe it. They said it barked all night in camp, drove them half mad. I thought I could use it as a guard dog but turns out it is feral. Or it was. Seems to have taken a liking to you two though.”

“We are taking him,” Celia told the innkeeper assertively, arms folded and no question in her tone.

“Can we!?” Alistair called up at her, clearly delighted. “You hear that good boy? You’re coming with us! Yes! Yes you are! Yes you are a good boy! Yes! Woof woof!” The dog barked a few times as if in response and finally clambered off Alistair. Celia rolled her eyes, wondering what she had gotten herself into but smiled to see both Alistair and the dog so jubilant.

“You’re welcome to him. He is worthless to me. Not even any good for the stew pot.” Alistair let out an outraged huff and Brutus growled.

“That is an awful thing to say in front of him,” Celia scolded as she helped brush snow from Alistair’s back.

“Take the bloody dog alright? Good as far as I’m concerned. And if you get bit don’t come crying to me.”

Riled, Alistair rounded on the man. “We will! Take the dog I mean, not get bitten, or come crying to – look, we are taking Brutus that is what I am saying,” Alistair finished, rather less emphatically than he had been aiming for. The innkeeper groaned and waved a dismissive hand before turning and walking back inside.

Alistair and Celia both readjusted their packs and strode off as haughtily as they could. Alistair whistled for Brutus, wholly unnecessarily as the dog was already following close at their heels.

After a little while, when they were well out of earshot of the inn Celia asked: “Did we just accidentally adopt a mabari?”

“Honestly, I think he adopted us,” Alistair replied as Brutus barked in agreement.

“A mabari is fine. Good actually. But if you happen upon any old travelling companions who are dragons I am drawing the line. Just so you know.”

Alistair took Celia’s hand as they walked and swung it enthusiastically beaming at her. “Whatever you say dear,” he answered in a teasing, sing-song voice. Celia narrowed her eyes at him then turned her face away to hide a smile.

A long, peaceful moment passed, the blanket of snow covering the landscape masking all sound except for the crunching of their own footsteps and the quiet, happy panting and investigative sniffing of Brutus. Abruptly, Alistair cleared his throat: “I knew this troll once actually - good pal - and he might be free –”

Celia reacted before Alistair had even finished his punch line, releasing his hand, crouching in the snow and flinging a fistful of it up into his face.

Alistair let out a melodramatic gasp of horror. “Milady! If you think I am above retaliating you have sorely misjudged my character!” he called but she was already running for the cover of a tree, cackling with laughter. Brutus barked and bounded in circle, excited by the game and wanting to participate while not precisely understanding the rules of it.

Alistair moulded a snowball and threw it in Celia’s direction only to have it splatter ineffectively against the tree trunk. Celia emerged grinning broadly and used the opening to hurl the few snowballs she had had time to roughly form while sheltering from his counter-attack.  

“Right!” he said as he began to stomp methodically towards her. “That _is_ it! I was always better at melee than ranged.”

Celia let out a series of cries, half laughter, half shrieks, as she tried and failed to get away, losing her footing and falling backwards when the snow grew unexpectedly deep. Brutus rushed to her, and, unsure of how else to assist, enthusiastically licked Celia’s face until she shoved him away, laughing in earnest now. Alistair meanwhile, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth with concentration, mercilessly formed the biggest snowball he could manage while offering no assistance to Celia, still prone on the ground, giggling and struggling to get up under the ministrations of the affectionate (but large) canine.

“Revenge,” Alistair said, approaching her, gripping the snowball carefully in both hands, “is a dish best served _snow_ cold.” He was close enough to throw it with absolutely no chance of missing but clearly intended to drop it on his victim from directly above and continued to approach.

Celia’s laughter cut off abruptly and even Brutus seemed to register the change in her mood and backed off quickly. “Alistair,” she said, in a voice serious enough to make him halt, still clutching his monster snowball, and look at her with concern, wondering if she was hurt. “How have you not figured out by now that I always have something up my sleeve?”

He barely had time to get out a baffled: “What?” before, with a quick flick of her wrist, Celia sent out a surge of magic that shook the tree beside him from the base of its trunk upwards causing an immediate avalanche of snow to rain down and pile on the hapless Alistair below.

Partly due to the unexpectedness of it, partly for dramatic effect, Alistair crumpled under the onslaught. He let out a groan. Celia was up in a moment, brushing snow off him as he lay very still. “Oh Maker, you’re half buried! I didn’t expect there to be so much! I’m sorry!” she fretted. It made it easy to grab her wrist, and pull her down into the snow with him, controlling the fall to ensure she did not land too heavily. Still, she shrieked again and this time it was Alistair’s turn to laugh. “I deserved that,” she said.

“You did,” Alistair agreed.

She propped herself up and gave him a swift kiss. “And you deserved that,” she said, fondly staring down at him.

Alistair blinked, cheeks warming. Even now he found these gestures unexpected and hard to believe. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like she did. With unadulterated affection. Love even. It seemed impossible. “I did?” he asked.

“Definitely,” she said with no hesitation at all.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Alistair felt like it might be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just three puppies, frolicking in the snow…A little, fluff of an epilogue for those of you who made it all this way – you earned it. I needed to give them a happy ending. For your sake. OKAY OKAY for my sake! So I can sleep at night! I’m only human! Can’t thank you enough for reading and for every bit of support I have received while posting this. It is a relief to have it all up but I am also a little sad it is over! Thanks again and hope you enjoyed!


End file.
